The grey bones of the rose plants shiver now,
Stripped by the rough hands of the ruthless air,
Bearing of that rich garb in summer clad
But a few rags ; upon them lowers a brow
Void of all tenderness, a soul-less stare,
Dark with a menace, as if nature had
No purpose save to kill. Yet see, the plough,
Impelled by human faith, turns with its share
The waiting soil ; and with a secret glad
Already infant buds swell on the bough.
The knell is not yet rung for ultimate death
Though earth be cold ; this is a time of pause,
Wherein each root deep of the mammae draws ;
For the spring flood all growing holds its breath.
Weekly Times 9.2.62