Classic Poem

Winter hems us round;
A powder of dry snow lies lightly on the ground;
The cold stings our flesh and our hearts, perhaps, as well;
Every faintest sound
Jars the quiet air like a harshly shaken bell.

The turning of the year
Was done a week ago, yet no light doth appear
And still the long nights eat the comfort-giving day.
Warmth draws not near;
Not long enough to hearten us the sun doth stay.

Gentle, gentle sun,
Be our friend as of old for one day, only one.
Breathe deceitful life into us and everything,
Before happiness is done,
The happiness we need for the long months till spring.