Diffugere Nives . . . .

Though the wind rebuff
Though ice bleaken the land
(Hidden its green all winter)
Though song of birds may not greet me
No, nor the Sun either

Yet am I content
Knowing that soon
(Shed this drear husk
This cloak of bitterness)
Life will renew itself and flow again
Here as it did two thousand years ago.

—I.D.C.