Twain Spirits ‘Neath Winter’s Gaze

Beside yon glassy mere so still,

doth stand a willow, sunder’d twain,

yet whole in nature’s solemn will,

its boughs as fingers, heav’nward lain.

 

The wat’ry glass doth whisper low,

of time long fled and sorrows deep,

as wayward winds in silence flow,

to stir the boughs where secrets sleep.

Done