Ice still gathers upon the window panes.
Though I keep the hearth ablaze, I fear
In this desolate corner of my world
Spring will be a little late this year

A fear of dread and emptiness prevails
Since the light and warmth of love withdrew,
How will I endure  . . . How can I forget
All the joys of Spring that I once knew?

Now trees raise leafless arms toward the sky,
Shivering without their sleeves of green;
Bewildered birds gaze upon vacant nests,
Sadly pondering the dismal scene

And the flowers . . . what could convince them
To awaken to this hollow gloom?
To what avail would be their blossoming
And the essence of their sweet perfume?

And though I smile, my eyes betray the pain
That stabs at the heart when love is lost;
The sun has battened down its golden doors,
Leaving Hope to tremble in the frost

I'll not see the flowers bloom and go to seed,
Nor hear the nightingale's plaintive call;
And I know, as sure as day turns to night,
Spring will be late . . . if it comes at all