Winter Gales Those galling gales, which in rough Winter rush Across bald-headed mountaintops exposed To their wild buffetings as captives to Some hateful prison-master’s vicious scourge: Over the cringing, wooded-hillsides’ slopes They violently hasten with rude roars, Like raging sea-surges pounding rock shores Intemperately. All the laggard leaves They lash from fear-chilled branches tossed in fright At such loud-voiced disparagement. Down through Lush valleys’ huddling fields they storm towards Wide-open plains impatiently, flogging Fast-fading petals from the latest flowers Which dare to flaunt their lingering delights In wanton display; whipping thin hedgerows With undisguised chagrin to find them still Dissenting from predestined dominance. Swift scurriers of ice-eyed Winter’s cold Autocracy, bearing its messages Of glacial control, their frenzied zeal In executing such commissions seems Immoderate. Although we know that Spring Could not revivify the world without This purging of degeneration’s dross, Each Winter gale resembles, in its force, That bigot passion which, unbridled, drives Through ruthless human hearts when they pursue The hapless victims of some demagogue; Or implement, for personal reward, Dark deeds of wickedness by others schemed. It is the fate of sycophants to be Reviled for acts their masters urge them to: But those who serve a tyrant’s will or whim Deserve their disrepute, however grim. J. A. Bosworth
Posted on: Sun, 27 Oct 2013 18:54:28 +0000
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