Winter's Undertakers by S. E. Johnson


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Winter's Undertakers

by S.E. Johnson

Winters come like undertakers,
White doom in fur capes,
Long in the face and patient.
Covering all in stark silence,
How I dread their efficiency,
The cold hand on the green world,
On my heart as well,

Of these I loathe the cold the most,
The wind swept barrens,
The lonesome empty coast,
Trees without leaves,
And silent years in frozen tombs,
and silent hours in frozen rooms.

Stark travelers gather in the kindling,
Hungry eyes in search of embers,
Clutching rags about lean forms.
Nearer to the flames inclined,
Clouds of breath surrounding,
Every face a study in denial,
At last I've come to join them.

Of these I loathe the cold the most,
The wind swept barrens,
The lonesome empty coast,
Trees without leaves,
And silent years in frozen tombs,
and silent hours in frozen rooms.

Falling down, falling down,
Until not one shall stand in protest,
Surrender to the long faced winter.
When kept from cold, kept from death,
The lonesome death of winter,
This solitude of mindless pondering,
I fall to earth a stranger.

Of these I loathe the cold the most,
The wind swept barrens,
The lonesome empty coast,
Trees without leaves,
And silent years in silent pondering,
and silent hours in mindless wondering.