Park Benjamin (1809–1864)

’T IS winter now,—but spring will blossom soon,

And flowers will lean to the embracing air,

And the young buds will vie with them to share

Each zephyr’s soft caress; and when the Moon

Bends her new silver bow, as if to fling

Her arrowy lustre through some vapor’s wing,

The streamlets will return the glance of night

From their pure, gliding mirrors, set by spring

Deep in rich frames of clustering chrysolite,

Instead of winter’s crumbled sparks of white.

So, dearest! shall our loves, though frozen now,

By cold unkindness, bloom like buds and flowers,

Like fountain’s flash, for Hope with smiling brow

Tells of a spring whose sweets shall all be ours!