The brilliance that made Heart beat the horizon
With warm vanity and counter Autumn’s air,
Also gave that Crimson force enough to shun
Our fear and say, “No frost will bare this hand’s fare.”
The day the cold came, it confused our will
With love, and quilled our skin with blood to mend
Our words, and woke the cure to our tongue’s ill—
That day we mortals could breathe by a god send.
That day we felt the sanguine humor—graced
As aural light falling on lays of plain—
Incite us to become the demure and chaste,
Giving our Heart strength to graze its lovely grain.
That immortal brilliance that put fire to cold
Is the divine right of the mortal soul.
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