by Jon Corelis31 Oct 2013
'Tis the last rose of summer! I shrieked in dismay,
and soon its bright petals must wither away!
O whence now the peach, the pear, and the orange?
For answer the door of time creaked on its door-hinge.
'Tis the first frost of autumn! I sobbed in despair,
and winter's sharp teeth soon will bite the day's air!
The leaves fall in shock at the season's cruel crime,
like a dandruff of years on the shoulders of time.
'Tis the winter's fifth blizzard! I howled in a rage,
and my soul gnaws its tail like a beast in a cage.
Though winter is wan, yet my passion is purple,
for griefs have my heart by the hair, and they sure pull.
'Tis the spring-time's first peony! I squealed in delight,
and its delicate bloom is for sore eyes a sight!
Now the season's warm joy holds the forests in thrall,
and I believe that I don't feel so bad after all.