The Plain

The plain’s a waste of evil mire,
And dead of colour, sodden-grey,
The trees are ruined, crumbled the spire
That once made glad the innocent day.

The host of flowers are buried deep
With friends of mine who held them dear;
Poor shattered loveliness asleep,
Dreaming of April’s covering there.

Oh, if the Bringer of Spring does care
For Duty valorously done,
Then what sweet breath shall scent the air!
What colour-blaze outbrave the sun!