I have, oft' times, thought of the dusk
The sorrow of the dying thrush
That clings to life, when gripping frost
Is all that then remains.
I have, in turn, thought of the dawn
The birthday of a gentle fawn
When spring returns, to bless the lawn
And finger sprouting grain.
'Tis human nature to conclude
Each changing of the spirit's mood
One nicety, and then one rude
Like temporary days.
But should we, bitter like the knaves
In season, forget wanton praise:
Let us, from God's eternal grace
Look more to the spring, than winter.
No comments:
Post a Comment