Winter’s wrath returns with coldness found
To puff the feathers of dear birds not flown,
His pallid cloak enshrouds the silent ground
On which, near past, were sweetest flowers grown.
The sun now weak, his feeble eye looks on
Broad barren fields once burgeoned with ripe grain,
That golden bounty rich, now fairly gone
Surrendered to that bleak and embattled plain.
Though girded gold and green must surely pass,
So marking thus in seasoned ordered time
That nothing good or bad shall ever last—
No blessing bright, more yet no callous crime:
As ice shall melt when vernal voices sing,
So from dark dirges hope shall ever spring.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.