Here where the winter dies,

Our hearts are not forelorn,

Bright heaven looks through these grey skies

On us, this morn.


Always the seasons pass;

Bleak tyrants and their hosts

Shall end as loam beneath the grass.

Heed not their ghosts.


Ever shall those who sense

God’s breath in every place,

And all His works, behold from thence

His Holy Face.


For here where the winter dies,

And spring is veiled with snow,

The muted cast of day belies

Love’s ardent glow.

© Joseph Charles MacKenzie. All rights reserved.