Winter’s wrath returns, his ice-etched frown

Now ruffles feathers of dear birds soon flown,

A pallid cloak enshrouds the frozen ground

Where fragrant blooms but recently were strown.

The sun now weak, his bloodshot eye peers down

On barren fields once burgeoned ripe with grain,

Glad golden bounty rich, now wholly gone—

Razed by stern winds to bleak embattled plains.

Though girded gold and green must surely pass,

So heralding life through season’s tinctured time

Where nothing good or ill can ever last—

No blessing bright, nor any callous crime:

As ice shall melt when vernal voices sing,

So from dark dirges, hope does ever spring.