THE ATONER

Winter has come in sackcloth and ashes

( Penance for Summer's enverdured sheaves ).

Bitterly, cruelly, bleakly he lashes

His limbs that are naked of grass and leaves.

He moans in the forest for sins unforgiven

( Sins of the revelous days of June ) —

Moans while the sun drifts dull from the heaven,

Giftless of heat's beshriving boon.

Long must he mourn, and long be his scourging,

( Long will the day-god aloof frown cold ),

Long will earth listen the rue of his dirging —

Till the dark beads of his days are told.