Dear old man Winter,
You come back around,
don't you, any time young-man
Spring needs his proud
little Head beat in?
You teach him good lessons.

Most cannot see it,
--how they may need it,
The cocks that coo too loudly,
The savagely winding vine,
The boisterious green hills rolling,
That fancy themselves too fine,
Those that feast that gorge themselves
Behind their curtains drawn by Fire--
Do they not see how, inevitably,
You come to shake them out?

Your swift hand comes on the wind,
Unseen, yet felt deep within,
Its caress a pious sin,
And tears 'parte the weak,
Limb-from-limb. I can see,
Plainly, your smite of Love
I feel, the cold caressess
of your black shroud,
I long to feel your icy breath
nudging me as I sleep,
as you, sleeping too, take
Your divinely well-earned rest
From quieting the loude.