Winter-Killed

BENEATH the snow the roses sleep,
Below the wave the pearls lie deep ;
Wedged in the rock-rift, centuries old,
Lie yellow veins of virgin gold ;
Ice-locked within its forest nook
Sleeps the bright spirit of the brook :
And under more than wintry fate,
Or ocean’s depths, or bowlder’s weight,
Or fettering ice, or frozen grass,
Dishonored Love lies dead, alas !

Yet spring shall wake the rose once more,
The diver bring the pearl to shore ;
With sturdy toil, the miner bold
Shall blast the rock and glean the gold,
And April set the brooklet free
To seek its waiting bride, the sea:
But not spring’s vivifying kiss,
Nor summer rain’s persuasiveness,
Nor toil, nor search, nor patient pain,
Can bring dead Love to life again.