Winter Sonnet, Op. 19

The buds of roses that afternoon;
Unknown to all the red red blooms,
Crystallise under the frozen dew,
As fades their life so very very soon,
To, come spring, bloom anew.
Though gentle the wind that blows,
And shine would still both sun and moon,
Stays no colour to tint eve's snows,
None to see through winter's woes,
No jewel to adorn the white white dunes,
And no prayer to grant almighty boons,
Though long would weep even the callous morning -
Wishing only that while be rent ever-lasting.