Mire

Harken

The clouds mustered in dark

So painfully easing

Hush, hearest ye the yew doting

Its years of yore in a mire

Each like a corpse within its grave

Wrought for us a yearn of lief

'Tis not a lore of bale nor loathe

Harmony and aesthesia are its blisses

Ne'er hath it existed so sonorously

Jostled away the pale drape

That us had been overhung

Tempted thy shutters to open

And thus quenched the hearth

Thou givest to misery all thou hast, the cold

With weal embraced the sprounting landscape

Like a star of heaven in the broad daylight

This joy subdueth until it again waneth

Save the drooping winter of stalwart