My Roses

Far beneath the bitter snow,
My roses are sleeping;
Beneath the ice so cold,
My roses lay weeping.

At the first kiss of sun,
Light will warm the ground;
My roses will awaken,
With nary a sound.

Their roots will stretch,
And soak up the wet;
They will grow strong,
Without producing a sweat.

Stems and leaves will reach out,
To drink in the sun;
And buds will start to form,
There will be more than one.

Far beneath the bitter snows,
My roses lay in wait;
To produce beautiful yellow blooms,
What a glorious fate.