Ostara is Icumen In: A Poem

Summer is a wild time
              of endless gaiety;
A lazy, balmy, mild time;
              of human laxity.
Of days with cares abandoned
              beside a socky shore,
And breeze-swept, heathered stretches
              of Scotland’s ageless moor.

Autumn is a time
              of summer’s finishing;
A child’s tearful, tired, mad time
              of summer love’s diminishing;
When hearts are sore from parting
              with summer’s short romance,
When leaves from trees are falling,
              weary from their dance

Winter is the dead-end-time
              in white and ghostly shroud;
Cold and bitter bed time
              ‘neath Odin’s constant cloud;
When all the earth is sleeping
              a long and growing sleep
And winds can loose lovers’ hands
              with one breathless sweep

Now, Springtime is the right time
              for every living thing
A joyful day and night time
              when birds and Ostara sings
Of days of hope and laughter,
              with just a hint of fear
How fortunate there’s a springtime
              once in every year.



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