WHILE yet the air is keen, and no bird sings, <br />Nor any vaguest thrills of heart declare <br />The presence of the springtime in the air, <br />Through the raw dawn the shepherd homeward brings <br />The wee white lambs--the little helpless things-- <br />For shelter, warmth, and comfortable care. <br />Without his help how hardly lambs would fare-- <br />How hardly live through winter's hours to spring's! <br /> <br /> <br />So let me tend and minister apart <br />To my new hope, which some day you shall know: <br />It could not live in January wind <br />Of your disdain; but when within your heart <br />The bud and bloom of tenderness shall grow, <br />Amid the flowers my hope may welcome find.<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/january-19/
