Winter Sun

The darkest days of winter, long

And cold, behind us lie,

And slowly rises golden sun,

The earth to lift from night.


While chill and icy winds do blow,

And leafless trees stand bare,

Yet, ‘neath the sunlight’s yellow glow

The dreariness looks fair.


And soon, once snowy blast is gone,

When ice no more can be,

The Spring shall dance ’til day is done,

Bedecked in joyous glee.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Candlelight

  A candle in a window stands, And through the panes it glows As early darkness shrouds the land That slumbers ‘neath the snow. The single flame so feeble seems Against the dark of night, Its golden shimmer, sparkling keen Within a drape of white. Yet, flame untouched by wind and chill Still beckons warmly, “Come, And warm yourself, and feast your fill ’Til winter’s past and gone!”
Read more

The Black Sword

A weary captain sits alone, His fellows mirthful feast, and home They wend their steps at break of day, For long has been their time away; But gazing into firelight warm, There, stony, is their leader, worn. Of noble house and old was he, E’er ill befell the peoples free And drove them thence, to live in thrall Of lowest men and shadows all, Until, at last, his way was made To seek his solace far away. A name he made, as years did pass, And honor brought his house; at last A Sword against the evil rose To vanquish many mortal foes, And men did flock to pledge their arms, Who to the Shadow brought much harm. But though great deeds this man had done, And proved himself his father’s son, Yet dark became his quiet heart; For long ago, the painful dart Of loss and weariness had pierced His soul, and made his vengeance fierce. So by himself his doom he bears, Through lore of kingdoms, tales of years, And great his name is ever known As darkness deep is overthrown; Though sad and troubled he ...
Read more

Words

The tread of Time is marked with blood Of warriors slain ‘neath battle’s flood, Where kings and armies came to blows And cursed fore’er their hated foes. Those weapons, forged in anger hot, Now ‘neath the soil decay and rot; And battles waged with fire and sword Have long since passed to books of lore. Yet, when the wars have long been dead, What spurs men on, to joy or dread, Or hastens feet upon the path, And bids them hope to find at last? ’Tis not the clash of hot-forged steel That helps the generations heal, Nor bloody cries of fighting fierce That makes the stiff neck bend an ear. For words burn long upon the heart Far longer than the archer’s dart, And pass for ages through the minds Of those who truth would seek, and find.
Read more