Classic Poem

Ere the spring comes near
Over the smoking hills,
Stirring a million rills
To laughter low and clear
That the winds hush to hear, —

Ere the eaves at noon
Thaw and drip, there flies
A Presence through the skies
With promise of the boon
Of birds and blossoms soon.

Elusive though it be,
Yet can I trust that word. —
Even such my soul hath heard,
Athwart life's wintry lea,
Of Immortality.