1.
Winter
Here my beginnings, the dark solitude
Of mine own self; my bleak captivity,
The lonely reaches of my barrenness,
The numbing mists of settled misery.
Here dreamt no promise. Nullified by
cold,
All hopes aborted ere conception known.
Only the bitter tracery of trees
Etched the close skies that loomed with
weight of stone.
No fruit, no flower, never hope of
life.
Never a breeze to whisper of the
spring. 10
No soft of moisture but the leaden
snow,
Weight of despair to blanket
everything.
To blanket, with the winding-sheet of
death,
All loveliness that longed to
germinate,
Lest there should be some seed to seek
the sun,
Some tendril of delight should
infiltrate.
Lest life, or hope, should enter
through some crack,
All, all was sealed with polar
lifelessness.
Here sang no birds. Here, never nest
was built.
Here music could find nothing to
express. 20
All was stark desolation. All was waste.
All was the ice-bound desert of the
heart.
Never came thaw to this frigidity,
Nor any sun, renewal to impart.
2.
Spring
Then, at the solstice of my
wretchedness,
Broke a new dawn that splintered fixed
despair.
Warmth, from outside all worlds that I
had known,
Softened the ice, and quickened the
dead air.
Life laughed aloud in the sweet waters'
song,
(Waters that danced, rejoicing to be
free.) 30
Tendrils of promise frolicked in the
wind,
Turbulent with a green vitality.
No more did the oppressive shroud of
snow
Smother the glory of the singing earth.
I was made one with verdure newly born.
I was delivered; I was brought to
birth.
I knelt and drank my fill from living
streams;
I walked with wonder where the flowers
sprang.
Trees put off all their dreary
nakedness;
Birds their cantata'd alleluias
sang. 40
I was a day-old lamb. I skipped the
hills
With feet of joy. My wool was washed so
white,
I tasted innocence and found it sweet.
I knew myself reborn into delight.
I knew, or thought I knew, all blessed
truth
In its simplicity. I was so young,
I had the leaping energy of love,
And I was glad to thaw me in the sun.
3.
Summer
Some early growth must wither in this
heat,
Burnt by the bare, remorseless light of
day. 50
But, a fertility that dazzles me,
Overrules any losses or decay.
Often made weary by unvaried light,
Still, to call this sun mine, I will
rejoice;
Glad in its splendour even when it
burns,
Knowing its fullness is my only choice.
This is the season of my labouring;
Season of toil, when I am often spent.
Yet, I see harvest-promise on the
trees,
And, in that sureness, I am
well-content. 60
Never such freedom as the grass that
springs
Quick from its cutting, lush to rise
again.
Never such hope as that within my
heart,
Ever renewed, though I'm cut down by
sin.
And, though my blossom time shall not
return,
Yet I shall glory, for I look ahead,
Towards a sun so bright it shall not
burn,
But make me one with perfect light
instead.
4.
Autumn
Here is completeness. Here, the
plenitude
Of heart's desire made perfect. No
decay 70
Lessens its bounty now, nor ever shall;
Harvest of joy that will not go away.
Here is the end of journey, end of
toil.
Here is the fruit whose flower was so sweet
Its scent beguiled the darkest hours of
want;
Now, in fulfilment, I will take and
eat.
Now I will drink, nor ever thirst
again.
Love is the liquid of my soul's desire,
Immersed in which, I taste all true
delight,
Fresh and untainted, perfect and entire. 80
No clouds adulterate the clarity
Of the blue consummation of a sky
Crystalled, that worship's vision may pass through,
And, into everlasting glory, fly.
Who could wish other than this
fruitfulness,
Fullness of mercy in maturity?
Here is no withering, but joy on joy;
Grace into grace for all eternity.
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