Her smile was the snow on the wintry green
Trodden to the ground, a mask upon the land
As fragile as the frost of a midmorning sheen
Forever aglow, but forever unseen.
Does she weep for the Spring, and the winterbourne streams?
A soft echo spent like the rustle of leaves
Tears at the sky as the morning assumes
A sigh, a shake, or a simple scream
Will wrest apart the unrest of this autumn daydream
Or like the rest scour, and tear at the seams.
But o, these lands! She holds the moon in her hands,
That I, once wreathed in holly, knew
Too cold and shrill for these icy lands
To spin them out of something new
Could thread the golden ribbons blue.
Thereat a cry revives the chill of a song
It is a place half discarded for a life long gone.