 | English Roses |  |
PALIMPSEST.
Talk not of dark DecemberAnd all its cruel snow,
For then I still remember
And hear the life below.
I see no rod of iron
Empearled with icy gems,
But only Spring the Siren
Betwixt the barren stems.
In frost I mark but pages
Of summer flowering free,
And in the wind that rages
The murmuring of the bee.
The shine is in the shadow,
The harvest in the cold,
And on the miry meadow
Are buttercups of gold.
Talk not of dark December
Because my head is grey,
My heart's undying ember
Keeps youthful holiday.
| English Roses | |