Now the pale sun towers once more to gleam
Out of the East, like a songless moon
Over this bared expanse, this out-worn model
Of an abundance nearly lapsed of account;
To light, yes--to betray these disrobed boughs,
Divested by that same sun of their leaves;
To glow without warmth, so like a faithless creed
Before which we kneel, hailing, "Ah! The light
Of the truth." Such we are beneath this glare--
Abject actors who cannot attain
The most meager of all artistry. This
How somberly the moon
Had toned upon the snow at Christmas.
Surely the spring must come again.