O come, say, no more days to wait
O high land lass, bait again!
Let portrait thy land by thy trait
And go all shadows of pain.

Old meadows, glades- - all are still
Although unglistening at thy absence
Winter is gone, Farewell!
Yet, all pain my sense.

There are dried moires of Grove
Falling, bewildered by past;
Though happily reared by Love
Of thee, all's too aghast.

Soon or late, will fly the pies
Baffling rainbow hue
Among trees, amid skies
At the fall of old-restored dew.

The rivulet, once who was fleet
Will rise again at thy touch
Or, when thy sickle will meet
To the next season much.


03/13/2016

(Published in his self-published book "Some Suitable Words", in January,2018)