Though the heart, in winter-white
Cerements of snow,
Find no buds of young delight,
No green hope-leaves grow;
All its flowers by sun and rain
Burned to gold and red;
By the autumn wind-frosts slain,
Faded, brown and dead;

Though the summer blossoms deep
As the snowflakes fall,—
Ashes grey that drift and creep
Out and over all;
Though we seem as painted pawns
In the game—the strife,
Yet before us lie the dawns
Of far-ranging life!