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.