Noon in golden thaw is garbed with glory,
Midnight's wrap of silver snows is hoary.
Pink the buds among the aspen's ashes
Where the diamond hoar-frost softly flashes.
My kind cat has furtively departed,
But the swallow has returned, high-hearted.
Winter grief no more our dumb lips locking,
But upon the heart Spring grief is knocking.
And at noon we weep, our bosoms crossing,
Midnight sees us in hot slumber tossing:
Quiet lips, knees pressed as though in prayer,
But our shadowed eyes are our betrayer.