When Frost had dressed the Earth with shimmering white,
And gloved the gnarled bare fingers of the Trees…
And lengthened Days were firmly turned to flight,
Forsaken…Despair was wont to appease.
For Nature had its winter coat prepared,
And spun the misty tendrils on the loom…
The Sun had lain in wait…but had not dared
To venture much into the morbid gloom.

Then Shadows dancing in the listless Flame,
Gave forth unto a silent anguished shout…
Cast downward glance in melancholy Shame,
Illusion’s falsehood had the Truth without.
From bitter Fate relief to vainly seek,
Release now from pitiful Pain defiled.
Tears moistening the full soft rosy cheek…
The meek embrace of mindful manners mild.

Unfortunate is Love’s hurtful mistake…
Redemption…mellow full from mournful chime.
With tenderness to comfort Yearning’s ache…
Abides by Faith the cherished Soul sublime.
The well-belovéd Song should contemplate
The restless clamour of the fevered Mind.
Much hindered by the Furies and the Fates…
Tormented…full of hopelessness confined.

Tread softly now within Elysian fields…
Full radiantly in Youthhood’s lustrous shine.
When Succour’s clemency salvation wields…
In awe behold the Firmament divine.
Prometheus, where is thine heavenly fire…
That burnt supreme within the lofty hearth?
Thus Knowledge with the mortals didst conspire…
Which had unto the Gods provoked their wrath.

But who could claim it well all things to know?
The flame of Truth where Ignorance shall burn…
Where Wisdom kindles in the afterglow?
The hallowed Quest which Gods and Mortals yearn.
Impassioned Thrill, which Reason cannot make
Its own, can satiate the ardent Heart.
And transcend all that comes to pass…and take
A subtler form…a much enlightened part.

Wanton now is the exalted Spirit…
When blissful Rapture softens Love’s delight.
The brand of Rationality is lit…
The insanity of Senses now takes flight.
To good Fortune will favoured Hope ensue,
And lend itself to a fair Grace benign.
Bathed soothingly in the ethereal dew,
The impure Self refreshingly refined.

When tranquil Peace, as wont to Habitude,
Shines well upon the countenance serene,
Allays all doubt in restful Quietude…
The Soul and Love have Harmony between.
And footfalls tread unfettered by Ill-Grace,
On ground unsullied by Ill-Temper’s scorn,
Make hastened steps until they reach the place…
Thereunto from Sorrow’s wretchedness torn.

Joyful is the inspiring streaming flow,
And fervent the Ardour that is ordained.
Lo! Is the Soul not sated and mellow…
When Benevolence is in the heart contained?
Purblind is Fate when chanced to be discrete…
Of Senses in Divinity caressed.
In Comfort’s breast is all desire replete…
And the Sojourner mercifully blessed.