Late sun, whose ineffectual blaze
Illuminates the snowy woods,
And throws across the frigid days
Iced shadows cut from purple goods;
Low sun, whose slanting feeble light
Holds off the clutching zero’s hold,
To lose the battleto the night
Which closes on us, fierce and cold;
Brave sun, your courage, so admired,
Is by what space-locked secret fired?
by Ray Romine Friday, December 29, 1950
