Thou grim physician, armed with septic shears, <br />Thou that dissemblest even in death's repose <br />Earth's quiet pulse and her remedial throes, <br />How dull thy visage on this day appears! <br />Let now the dismal heaven give vent, its tears <br />Come frozen ever; no gale coeval blows <br />Filled with the ravaged perfume of the rose; <br />And keep not all fair things forsaken biers? <br />O haste, then, spiritless minister, thy pains <br />To charge the sources of the unfruitful earth <br />For harvests blest in wood, in plot and lawn! <br />O laggard, on! till fire re-flood the veins <br />Of Spring here, ay, to trip the vales with Mirth, <br />As, long night over, does the exulting dawn!<br /><br />William Baylebridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-winter-in-the-midst-of-his-reign/
