Whence this wild, wet, and wearying weather
is no more,
and left together
on the shore?
Blown away with wanton wicked witches
vapors on a starless sky,
in ghastly pitches,
disappearing as the north winds die.
Cast along the lane once lofty leaves
release in death such radiance!
Why, my soul, bereave?
As angry clouds foretell
one more vicious, frozen winter hell,
My soul the Sun’s strength still perceives.
© 2014 by Yvonne Blasy
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