Like as the thrush in winter when the skies
Are drear and dark and all the woods are bare,
Sings undismayed, till from his melodies
Odours of spring float through the frozen air; -
So in my heart, when sorrow’s icy breath
Is bleak and bitter, and its frost is strong,
Leaps up, defiant of despair and death,
A sunlit mountain of triumphant song.
Sing on, sweet singer, till the violets come,
And south winds blow; sing on, prophetic bird!
Oh, if my lips, which are for ever dumb,
Could sing to men what my sad heart has heard –
Life’s darkest hour with songs of joy would ring,
Life’s blackest frost would blossom into spring.