THRO' THE DEPTHS
By JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
Underneath the fields are sleeping.
Overhead the ice is gleaming,
Underneath the rills are dreaming.
Overhead the clouds are piling,
But beyond the skies are smiling.
Overhead the snow is falling,
Yet I hear soft voices calling
To my soul, through winter groping,
Bidding me to keep on hoping,
For that through such chill as this is,
Through the arctical abysses,
Nature leads her sons and daughters
