Bleak winter folds o’er the mountains
and settles comfortably upon the earth
to mend the grass fields of summer's dew
and weigh upon the evergreen.
It is a burden they must carry long,
their needles quivering ‘neath frost.
A chill breath brushes ‘cross hillside,
sweeping o'er light crystal powder pale,
and weaving through what hath been woven.
The sky anon grey ‘til tender sunlit horizon
should’st feel thy cheek against her breast.
I plead for thy love so luminescent,
chiselled as thy nose, nay, ivy tongue,
yet must I recount to thee my heart?
What cruelty doth thy kiss reserve?
Must thou sour thy taste for me wounded?
I whisper heavy vows withal a sickness,
not so of the body, poorly yet of the mind.
Plagued by my fathom fed thou hath wrought,
my soul hath wilted black and sickly.
‘Tis Winter within my heart, loveliest.
‘Tis the woefully lost remnants of fierte
lavishing my mind withal throatful growls.
Blessed be thy crest of sweetness sour,
dripped steadily upon the canvas grey.
Would’st thou take pity upon my head?
Would’st thou woo the stars as I lay?
Rounded as I am, I shan’t be beseeched by Summer.
The skinned wolf prances in triumph.
I bid ye, loveliest, a good morrow.