The blowing, small-leafed bough Of the earlier year, bends only a naked stem,
Silver against this silver day.
And now The ferns are frost-tipped, and the roots of them Are caught in bitter ground with roots of flowers Which, with a small sound, crumble into ash Of winter.
While the fiery, frozen hours Taste of coldness, and the perilous lash Of wind goes past the sun and seeks the moon,
The dark hills gather greater darkness, take,
Against the future spring's high golden noon,
Darkness for winter's hard and piteous sake.