Midwinter clutches on the skirts of June-
And lays her blighting touch on bud and flower,
Her west winds, shrilling, play an eerie tune,
Like witches' mirth, in wild, triumphant hour!
Grey grows the world – yet see on hill and slope,
As bright thoughts flash through dull grief-laden day,
The red poinsettia raise its flag of hope!
And sudden, Spring seems not so far away.
Emily Bulcock (1923)
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