The winter comes; I walk alone, <br />I want no bird to sing; <br />To those who keep their hearts their own <br />The winter is the spring. <br />No flowers to please--no bees to hum-- <br />The coming spring's already come. <br /> <br />I never want the Christmas rose <br />To come before its time; <br />The seasons, each as God bestows, <br />Are simple and sublime. <br />I love to see the snowstorm hing; <br />'Tis but the winter garb of spring. <br /> <br />I never want the grass to bloom: <br />The snowstorm's best in white. <br />I love to see the tempest come <br />And love its piercing light. <br />The dazzled eyes that love to cling <br />O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring. <br /> <br />I love the snow, the crumpling snow <br />That hangs on everything, <br />It covers everything below <br />Like white dove's brooding wing, <br />A landscape to the aching sight, <br />A vast expanse of dazzling light. <br /> <br />It is the foliage of the woods <br />That winters bring--the dress, <br />White Easter of the year in bud, <br />That makes the winter Spring. <br />The frost and snow his posies bring, <br />Nature's white spurts of the spring.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-winter-s-spring/
