Now is the winter of my discontent
To be reformed, transfigured into spring?
I cannot seem to hold to anything
That by this sudden blossom is not rent.
I leave a love behind, unfathomed still;
I have a hope before me, waiting yet;
And trapped so, where no boundaries are set,
I find a faith, an unexpected will.
The summer is impending in the autumn;
The promise is penumbred by the wilt;
Before new petals grow, leaves must be spilt
On forest floors, at garden’s edge and bottom . . .
Fall, leaves, as my heart, for leave I must,
And autumn presses on, and we are dust.
