By Tobias Allaire, Bishop of Rosewood
Beneath the leaves, across the lea,
When country lands wake up to spring,
A place of wood with plumage green
Heaves and swells in a verdant sea.
Along a trodden dusty road
Unwinding like a golden scroll,
As I slowly come for a stroll,
Robins pour out a hearty ode.
Patches of snow must think it queer,
Faint airflows chasing mid-air chill,
Thinking they were in winter still,
While in the springing of the year.
Why does the songbird wheel and call,
On lofty heights to which it soars?
Why do the sad winds sweep the shores,
Their ample robes on-air unroll?
Gay upon the rising mystery,
The vernal weather is fickle:
A light drizzle turning brutal
Suddenly shattered symmetry.
O hushed cedars of morning mild,
I shall near your trunk be your guest,
Under your outgrowths seek short rest,
By the harsh daunting rain beguiled.
A tempest is a wondrous sight:
Whirling winds dismantling the sun,
Darkness and light are interwoven,
Join to inspire an awed delight.
Behold the uproar’s fearsome grace,
Crashing torrents from airy lakes,
The earth shuddering in its quakes,
The whirlwinds in their dark embrace.
The clashes gradually lighten,
All quenched in a silence of death;
Yet midsummer’s tumultuous breath
Left its loneliness unbroken.
When I trod past the ruffled field,
My thoughts carry some faded scent,
Given to me by weeds’ lament
And airy suits that thrushes yield.
Pearls mingling into the meadow
Have left rosebuds lone, bare and ill.
The firmament has wept its fill,
Spent its store of forlorn sorrow.
From out the dripping violet leaves,
Raindrops glimmer like heaven’s tears;
In the gray light of dawn all clears,
In the heavy chill heaven grieves.
Twixt earth and clouds where birds can fly,
Sunshine won’t pour its airy fire
Till the wrathful thunders retire,
Closing behind an azure sky.