Awaiting spring in winter's torpor, I Inspect the flower beds for shoots of green, But nothing there does feed my starving eye; Just castings of besotted worms are seen. The days are growing longer, so they say. Yet seaborne winds deliver stillborn clouds, Cast o'er my dormant valley--dead and gray-- Concealing blue skies like sublucent shrouds. It's February and my muse is mute. She slumbers in a bed of rotting leaves And shadow, hid from Sol's low lumb'ring route, And drowns in torrents pouring from the eaves. So stir me not until she wakes.
This may be my favorite yet
beautiful