a poem for your monday

There is a Budding Morrow in Midnight

Wintry boughs against a wintry sky;

    Yet the sky is partly blue

        And the clouds are partly bright:--

Who can tell but sap is mounting high

        Out of sight,

Ready to burst through?

Winter is the mother-nurse of Spring,

    Lovely for her daughter's sake,

        Not unlovely for her own:

For a future buds in everything;

        Grown, or blown,

Or about to break.

Christina Rossetti