Amid the bleak midwinter by the town
there sits a lonely aconite of spring
whose golden bowl is knit with prayer,
and sashed with snow her garment is.
The fields are littered with a crystal down;
the covenant of music is a broken thing
except the owl; the owl is there
and all the woods are only his.
O solitary acolyte of Spring
Tell us the secret of the lonely hour
where well before the dawn thy paean breaks.
Tell us the secret heritage of power
where is, despite the frost, thy soul unfurled.
What is the ruse thy form betakes?
Only thy secrecy avails, O child
to whisper of thy nuptials there
with Dawn, amid the frost.
The sun shall dance upon the bowers
and flowers soon shall answer to thy prayer
when Spring is there,
O solitary watcher of the Day.