But the Vine standeth out amid the frost;
And after all, hath only this grace left,
That it endures, in long, lone stedfastness,
The winter through; and next year blooms again,—
Not bitter for the torment undergone,
Not barren for the fulness yielded up,—
As fair and fruitful towards the sacrifice,
As if no touch had ever come to it,
But the soft airs of heaven and dews of earth;
And so fulfils itself in love once more.
