All snowy boughs
arch their way through,
Bending ever-pleading
as often bowers do.
Their calling heard too soon
nor quickly will subdue,
A-drifting in all white,
spreading outward and toward you.
Now is never late
budding hopes upon the pine,
Upon winter's sigh
Jack Frost has left his sign.
Wrap winds which blow too cold
seals winter's bitter hold,
I bury now within,
not coming out again.
2005
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem