Under the Snow

Beneath the regions, frostbound, cold, Where every angel treads in white, Lies the sleeping woodland, still and old, Waiting for kisses of the light.

Soft curls of snow wrap round the boughs, Lean down beneath their balmy might, And the trees offer up their heads in vows, For the sun’s return in delight.

Toots of birds and whimpers of leaves, They sing in secrets, twinkling dreams, Through the heart of still, serene deceives, There’s a promise held within its beams.

• James Russell Lowell