The snow falls wet and heavy
On lands that do not know it well
As if to remind us of its power
“Fly you fools, this is my hour!”
And rings out winter’s waning bell
Over frosted pine and frozen levee

Old Winter is a fickle thing
Feeble in his elder days
His storms, last bouts of childish rage
Just before he leaves the stage
And fades before the newer plays
Written by the hand of spring

But Summer is the ruler here
Longest-lived and wielding power
And should I choose of frost and fire
A surer end I would desire
Over a single frozen hour
Choose I a burning year

Photo by @Speederson.