HE Winter gathers up the foldsOf his torn robe from hills and wolds, New life breathes over vale and plain, And dead hearts come to life again,—But O, these bonds!
Mild March forbears his boisterous ways, And whispers to the listening days A promise of the coming June; And life would be a precious boon,—Except these bonds!
A robin sings on yonder limb, Amid the buds, a triumph hymn; And I could almost hear the bees Busy among the apple-trees, But for these bonds!
My soul could catch spring's vital breath, Could break this icy trance of death,As trees come out in fresher life After the winter's woe and strife,—Except these bonds.
O friend! how fair, in sun and dew, The flowers would bloom tile long year through, But for the cruel winter-time! I, too, were in my blossom-prime, But for these bonds!
Each soul must have its strife with fate; Tell me, which is the sadder state, To fly, and fly, and find no rest, Or dream away a life, oppressed But by these bonds?
HE Winter gathers up the foldsOf his torn robe from hills and wolds, New life breathes over vale and plain, And dead hearts come to life again,— But O, these bonds! 
HE Winter gathers up the foldsOf his torn robe from hills and wolds, New life breathes over vale and plain, And dead hearts come to life again,— But O, these bonds! 