A Frozen Spring

Lone Winter trails his cloak across the hill,Looks back and leaves the mute mask of his faceCaught in the hollow, sullen, gray and still,And veils the desolation of the placeWith a sharp breath of bitter, brief regret;But we who saw an earlier mysteryOf thorny vine and ferny brink, and fretOf soft-spun grass, and glimpse of crystal sky,Know that a song lies pent beneath this hush,A song of unforgotten things and sweet,—The year's white birth, the first notes of the thrush,Red dawns and April's yellow sunsets fleet;So, 'neath the mask of age, lies hid Time's truth,The throbbing, hoping, singing heart of Youth.