A New Metre: Poetry Archive

“. . . one . . . with a writer’s inkhorn by his side . . .” —Ezekiel 9:2

I Think that I Shall Die in Winter

I think that I shall die in winter,
for well drawn night the end of spring
my entrance made I in this world;
my stuff upon the earth did fling.

And then I think that all my stuff
will have been gathered from yonder winds,
whence it has blown, and on the earth,
the stuff which knit me ’gain will bind.

I think that I shall die in winter,
but snow shall be my Touching-stone.
I was born in vigil of the sun:
well meet is winter’s sun-ward groan.

In winter shall I take my rest
from all my earth-born toil and blood.
Without the light my fate in birth,
I die without its happy flood.

From then ’till now I ne’er ’ve wanted
joy or sun-shine over much.
I think that I shall die in winter:
I fain would die without Sol’s touch.

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