Clothed in winter’s vale of lace,
stands an aged tree.
Awaiting springtime’s youthful face,
to birth its hues of green.

Yet here upon this winter eve,
a birth did not await.
A daughter whom from love conceived,
born pure and delicate.

Her father’s hands were first to touch,
this soft and graceful form.
A special being to love so much,
and rejoice with each new morn.

So as the snow drapes on the boughs,
of olden elms and oaks.
Know well this child of winter now,
is blessed with spring’s new hopes.