There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight
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.
Christina Rossetti
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