The wind is chill in the street;
    As it sighs, the bare boughs fret;
    Grime of the mire and the wet
  Hinder the weary feet;
  But high in the purer air, --
    High as the heart's desire --
    In a passion of longing and fire
  A bird sings sweet and fair, --
While a sunbeam, cheery and strong,
Answers the joy of the song,
        And Spring is coming.

  Soul, thou art sore distrest!
    By grief and the shadow of death,
    By cold of the winter's breath,
  Still is thy pulse opprest!
  Lift up thine eyes to see,
    Lift up thine ears to hear, --
    For the spirit of life is near
  And its voice is calling to thee.
Over the graveyard sod
Shineth the smile of God,
        And Spring is coming.