Earth bears her sorrow gladly, like a nun, <br />Her young face glowing through the icy veil. <br />The storms that threaten her, the winds that rail, <br />Kindle a deeper color. She has won <br />Graces that please the high-enthronèd sun; <br />Across her soft white robes that drift and trail <br />He casts his lordly purples, lest she quail <br />With the dead year, and think that all is done. <br />She leadeth on through desolate sad days, <br />A smile upon her lips, a triumph-song <br />Shut in her heart. Be glad! so singeth she; <br />Glad of the solitude, the silent ways,— <br />Even of the pain; so shall thy soul grow strong <br />For the brave spring that comes to set us free.<br /><br />Harriet Monroe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-150/
