inert, like grey stone
inside a ribbed dewar cage
she was all heart once
the drub and thrum of seasons
now preserved for the next world
The bloom is on the May once more,
The chestnut buds have burst anew;
But, darling, all our springs are o’er,
‘Tis winter still for me and you.
We plucked Life’s blossoms long ago
What’s left is but December’s snow.
But winter has its joys as fair,
The gentler joys, aloof, apart;
The snow may lie upon our hair
But never, darling, in our heart.
Sweet were the springs of long ago
But sweeter still December’s snow.
Yes, long ago, and yet to me
It seems a thing of yesterday;
The shade beneath the willow tree,
The word you looked but feared to say.
Ah! when I learned to love you so
What recked we of December’s snow?
But swift the ruthless seasons sped
And swifter still they speed away.
What though they bow the dainty head
And fleck the raven hair with gray?
The boy and girl of long ago
Are laughing through the veil of snow.
by ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE (1859-1930)
Public Domain Poetry