Winter's Grief



            Oh, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
        Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature's pride is, now, a withered daffodil.

-Ben Johnson (1572-1637),
Slow, Slow, Fresh Fount,
Keep Time with My Salt Tears
,
from Cynthia's Revels







images © 1999 by Randy Wang
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