(completely unedited. fifteen minutes worth of spontaneous writing. enjoy.)
It is a land of colour freeze
It is a room of grey
In wistful woe, upon my knees
I weep on winter day.
As I am young, I faint believe
The madness that I see
That all this life be left to grieve
It is a shame to me.
For poets all have once embrac'd
And bit the fruit of spring
But, beautiful as it may taste,
It is a brittle thing.
The fields, all gemmed and honey-flower'd
Living hues diverse
Of all these things to be devour'd
The air is wilted first.
Those trees that once had stood and clapt
Arrival of the winds
Reduced to chill, that they are snapt
Each time this blow rescinds.
The harbingers of summer scorn
come spitting from the sky
The sun is gone, its children born
And coldly left to die.
The shoots of grass, no more to dance
Or spread their fruitful breath
Now shrivell'd in a wary stance
They hear the chime of death.
I know not why the sweet and shrill
Be rendered terse and bitter
To lay, their bodies ever still
Their caskets all a-glitter.
I feel not why such blanched vice
Could shame the spring's accost
My sympathy is trapt by ice
In frame of winter's frost.
It is the sky's neutrality
that leaves my senses numb'd
Those harps of immortality
Were ne'er so smugly strumm'd.
The snow and sickles fornicate
To ward the warm away
Tormented love, triumphant hate
travers'd the land to-day.