Sonnet 447

This snow now falling fast upon more snow,
Ice feathered down upon the fields to rise
And robed in white the solemn cornstalk rows,
Stark sullen forms to winter’s might apprise.
Sad vanquished trees dark branches supplicate
Beneath that burdened blight that they now bear,
Yet in disgrace they stand still proud and straight
To flout the frozen manacles they wear;
But winter’s mischief still is not here done
His gelid breath to drift the frigid blight
And build tall ramparts forged to brave the sun’s
Bright brazen rays with which he soon must fight.
Here in subnivean warmth I gaze and dream
That one day from this ruin shall summer gleam.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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