In winter, melancholic mist
floats friendless ‘cross the frozen field,
as I hang lonely and unkissed,
and to my dread depression yield.
Above, the shrouded, silent sun
stands still, or so it seems to me.
Below, this dismal devil’s son
swings slowly on the Judas-Tree.
By noon, when dreary darkness falls,
I hear a soulful singing bird.
From tree to tree the creature calls.
He hopes, by one, he will be heard.
At dusk, when all sweet dreams expire,
my empty, aching heart grows cold.
And thoughts, once fed with Jesus-fire,
turn grey the season’s gleaming gold.