Wintry boughs against a wintry sky;
  Yet the sky is partly blue
    And the clouds are partly bright:--
Who can tell but sap is mounting high
  Out of sight,
Ready to burst through?

Winter is the mother-nurse of Spring,
  Lovely for her daughter's sake,
    Not unlovely for her own :
For a future buds in everything;
  Grown, or blown,
Or about to break.