The spring was fresh, but waning, when
my love for him was born.
In summer's warmth I played with him,
who stayed throughout the morn.
But glorious sun gives turn to fall's
conceit: the dying smell.
And winter tolls a mystery:
play it knell or Christmas bell?
But if Christian feasts remember,
whose promise is of life
in death and dark, of return of
us, may frigid break to light.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:52 AM UTC
The spring was fresh, but waning, when
my love for him was born.
In summer's warmth I played with him,
who stayed throughout the morn.
But glorious sun gives turn to fall's
conceit: the dying smell.
And winter tolls a mystery:
play it knell or Christmas bell?
But if Christian feasts remember,
whose promise is of life
in death and dark, of return of
us, may frigid break to light.