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LINES WRITTEN
UPON THE CHANGING OF THE SEASONS
By Joseph Schmitt
When strong oak and sweet birch of the meadow
Cast silhouettes in the mists of my soul,
I again contemplate my life's sorrow,
Although 'tis faded and shallow and cold.
Earth new and tender - so bright with the sun!
Past soft spotted births, through pinks and ripe grass
Through meadows of dew, feet soaked I would run;
Once never thinking such horrors would pass.
The day would soon come; the blood would be shed,
The war would be fought in fury and cost.
Humanity plucked the eyes from my head,
And strewn in the meadow ripe, rotten loss.
Out of the darkness a light beckons me,
"Turn to the meadow, and its sweet incense
For Nature will wrest one more casualty,"
And deep in my heart I cast recompense.
Light from the sky tastes a sharp citrus smooth,
Summer's sugared, what a jaded delight!
My chest heaves with breath, so slowly I move
From my dark grave floods a fond, loving light.
Out of loss I yet gained senses pleasing
To a degree of astounding compare.
Now the birds beneath stars sing with reason,
Having Winter's most brilliant despair.
Smoldering candles in searching brow'd holes,
Proves no blazing star is an honest cold.
The past will not leave, the future won't wait
Whilst I live in sorrow - terrible fate!
The seasons will change, the anguish remind,
The firmer in spirit true hope will find.
But in this new light I blindly confess
In darkness I feel; through Nature I'm blessed.