Higginson and Bigelow, comps. American Sonnets. 1891.
In WinterWilliam Struthers
R
No pity has it for these naked boughs.
Look! how round shrinking twigs it doth carouse;
The while its echoes, bugle-shrill, are dinned
Across the land, whose energies lie pinned
Beneath its swoop, and which, with sleet-seamed brows,
Unto the blast, like some bond-creature, bows,
Or like a wretch who iterates, “I ’ve sinned!”
Yet desolation worse than winter’s dearth
O’erwhelms a soul that cowereth unto Fate,
And will not eyes uplift, nor spurn the earth,
Nor for the springtide with endurance wait,
Nor disbelieve a lie that slays its mirth,
But stands dumb, deaf and sightless nigh Love’s gate!