Sad-Hearted, Be At Peace: The Snowdrop Lies Buried In Sepulchre Of Ghastly Snow; But Spring Is Floating Up The Southern Skies, And Darkling The Pale Snowdrop Waits Below. Let Me Persuade: In Dull December'S Day We Scarce Believe There Is A Month Of June; But Up The Stairs Of April And Of May The Hot Sun Climbeth To The Summer'S Noon. Yet Hear Me: I Love God, And Half I Rest. O Better! God Loves Thee, So All Rest Thou. He Is Our Summer, Our Dim-Visioned Best;-- And In His Heart Thy Prayer Is Resting Now.