A naked tree still hails the sun
That peeks out from its prison-cloud;
A few brave flowers, two or one,
Have dared to don their costumes spun
Before the lightheart land was cowed
Beneath cold iron, pale and proud.
The host of seeds and sap is steeled
With warmer winds, and marches on
To break the frost on barren field
And see its long-lost life revealed,
So on some morrow-morn the fawn
Can meet the promised come of dawn.
But earth’s little rebellion
Is fallen to its darkest lord
With mind Machiavellian
And maw Pantagruelian
That makes to sheathe each verdant sword,
Crushed underfoot by ashen horde.
The winter sacked the world for gold,
But now its last great strength is spent;
The growing green, it cannot hold
Within its failing freezing fold,
Nor will the reborn blue repent
To triumph in the firmament.