O bleak midwinter

O bleak midwinter, you're mother, no king

of a paradise in bloom: you named spring.

Time is aching, at the stillness of your trail—

O little flowers, rise and wail!

You're bride, no queen

of a season to be young, of a season: oh so pristine!

The sun has learnt to starve, to hide, to rue—

A sky under your veil, and a world of something blue.

O wintertide! No court would do you right.

For, you are mother. For, you are bride.