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