I
Thou white enveloper of an early year!
Thou raging pointillist! Thy chilly scene
Is furiously wrought. Each crystal tear
Of thy unrivalled sorrow (unforseen
By my impatient poetry of Spring
And Love’s awakening) is rudely hurled
To earth by vengeful, moaning winds of grief
That quickly weave a shroud around the world.
But all in vain --- a tardy sun will bring
To snow-encircled sentiments relief.

    II
Wouldst thou retard love’s progress? Vain recourse
Of Winter! Ghost of the wrathful, templed skies!
Artless champion of Nature’s force!
Undaunted by thy screen of cold replies
To my uncertain heart’s demanding quest,
I turn my steps toward warmer atmospheres
Where perfumed flowers taunt the tasting souls
Of lovers, and a captive Fancy hears
The lingering nightingale who sets to rest
All doubts that shamed our good and honest goals.

    III
Lest I do wrong by thee, that rage outside
These drifted window panes, and seem to say
I hold thee less esteemed than Winter’s bride,
The tender-budded Spring, the child of May,
Let me avow my mind’s own quiet need
For thy example of a storm at peace;
Thy calm assault upon my restless state
Has brought this Slave of Poetry increase
Of freedom which in coming months will lead
Both art and waking love to summer’s gate.

Copyright (2006) by Arnold Cantor.
All rights reserved.

[Written 1958; the first stanza around the middle of February; the last two around the middle of March.]