The dim gold of sunrise draws across land:
Young men digest and passionately toil.
The sojourns of eager bees spread and feed
And mulch the land with rash conviction.
This virile Spring breeds.

The long slow gray of a life enchained
Is removed and sick. Its pallid face peers
Through glass unclear and thick. Yet still no rays
Can pass through old, and older still: The mountain's
Dreadful, rocky face.

                    -c. c. Condry