Winter’s wrath arrives with blood upon the trees

And golden treasure strewn upon the ground;

There, angered now, a gentle summer’s breeze,

Rears up in gales that flay fair fortune down.

Gilt golden grain, once proud, lies stooked and tied,

Steel scythe upraised—heads bowing to their fate;

By pitchfork, pike and wagon’s rumbling ride,

Condemned unto the byre beyond the gate.

Hoar frost encrusts the fields—a  chainmail cloak,

That stills in silence, fur and feathered song;

While babbling on, the brook not yet in yoke—

Unfazed by icy chains he’ll wear ere long.

So once again that gelid might descends—

‘Til gentle Spring returns and makes amends.