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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