You, so unmoved by the wind in its haste,
You, so moved by the sun high in its place,
Yearn you for snow to make your Pome Trees bow?
Or be it fire you ignite for now?
To flame and flare and rear its bridled head,
To rise and swirl ‘till Aphrodite’s bled
And to you, 'mid her ashes, her Doves do bow?