Heavy is the fog this bitter sunless morn,
Yet still lingers truly on, his manifest warmth.
O, false and wicked must it be then now to mourn
If heaven’s spared my boy—no warrant for alarm.
Motionless he lies beside the firelight,
And around him kindred stand with low heads all.
His stillness and his cold dispassion seemed a spite
To biding love, so thus within me ire sprawl.
Light without intensifies, yet here within
Gloom becomes an agent of discrimination—
In wanting disposition, I condoned my sin
Of faithless dereliction. Had I known, my son!
Draw the blinds, I say, and douse the mocking flames;
In this shadowed piercing frost leave me to weep
And let this venal darkness on me stake its claim—
Forevermore would winter stay my love asleep.
Gently then a golden ray impales the blinds,
And conducted clement echoes of the songs
My everloving lad would serenade, and binds
My soul to dreams of spring. I’d wait for everlong.