O Winter, grisly, icy thing
Of barren white and indigo,
Wilt thou make way when comes the Spring?
Thy fabric-piercing, awful sting
Makes thee Dame Nature’s greatest foe,
O Winter, grisly icy thing.
To just this hope thy victims cling,
Who suff er, cheeks and chins aglow:
Wilt thou make way when comes the Spring?
Thy breath hast stilled the lilting swing
That caused the happy brook to flow,
0 Winter, grisly icy thing.
All hope almost abandoning,
We wonder, as we see fresh snow,
Wilt thou make way when comes the Spring?
One day a flash of Bluebird’s wing
Shall tell us what we sought to know:
0 Winter, grisly icy thing,
Wilt thou make way when comes the Spring?
by Ray Romine Thursday, December 27, 1945
