By Violet Jacob

    When winter’s pulse seems dead beneath the snow,
        And has no throb to give,
    Warm your cold heart at mine, beloved, and so
        Shall your heart live.

    For mine is fire – a furnace strong and red;
        Look up into my eyes,
    There shall you see a flame to make the dead
        Take life and rise.

    My eyes are brown, and yours are still and grey,
        Still as the frostbound lake
    Whose depths are sleeping in the icy sway,
        And will not wake.

    Soundless they are below the leaden sky,
        Bound with that silent chain;
    Yet chains may fall, and those that fettered lie
        May live again.

    Yes, turn away, grey eyes, you dare not face
        In mine the flame of life;
    When frost meets fire, ’tis but a little space
        That ends the strife.

    Then comes the hour, when, breaking from their bands,
        The swirling floods run free,
    And you, beloved, shall stretch your drowning hands,
        And cling to me.

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