Winter’s air, so thin and dry,
Whose fleeting sun soon will die.
A scarlet stroke across the sky
Reflects upon thy mirrors eye.
Lost, now, the echo of Summer’s cry
O’er the hills and swamping the trees
Winter’s coat lye atop weeping canopies
And Winter’s winds hold no contrite
For those who seek their fallen light.
You ne’er escape that reluctant sight
For dead the sun and long the night.
And these accounts found great in spite
Of how northbound birds now taketh flight.