Finis Coronat Opus

In distant vale, amid the hills There stands an oak of old; No sound of running brook or rill Is heard from where it grows; Nor ‘round it sways the greenest fields, With wildflowers bright and gay. This oak stands tall and does not yield To tempests’ gust and sway. From sapling small, ‘mid drought and flame, On toward the sun it grew, Through years of dust, no birds, no rain, Yet still the time imbued   This greatest tree with trunk of strength, And boughs to bear aloft Fair verdure deep, and life beneath The rays of sun so hot. Had not this oak been battered o’er, When it was yet so small, There could not have this refuge grown In desolation’s maw.

Chilling gust of freezing wind Courses o’er the hills; Frozen grasses break and bend,  Snowflakes burst from hidden fen, Stirred up in the chill. Last of falling leaves now gleam With a glaze of ice, Crystalline and ethereal, Fairy-like, now dance a reel With spinning snowflakes light. Soon shall set the frozen sun, For daylight now is short; But moonbeams yet shall fall upon Dancing flurries, frosts light-spun: For gay is Winter’s court.