The Revival

All along the white stone path,
I made a track of little laughs;
While searching for a painter's brush, Trying to mask the seasoned hush. But winter wishes with hands of gloom, Wanted fallen buds for unseen blooms; And no more did small figures stay, As whistles and whispers cease to play. So with visible breath I sighed a while,
And looked along the shadowed aisle;
That blushed slightly of hung blue roses,
And nearby trees in curtsied poses. “What a waist” was my selfish thought, As autumn babies are often taught, When under my chin a hand was lifting To place my eyes upon Jack Frost's glistening. “Take my hand and I'll stop this coming of ice, Give nothing in return, for your smile will suffice.” No words through my lips or thought in my mind, As I ran, no floated, with Jack through time. Then the passing branches that were nearly all bare Came bursting from sunshine into life without care; And roses of crimson opened to the clearing blue canvas That would happily neglect snowfall come time for Christmas.

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