Van sang of romance 'neath October skies,
and surely there was that to share;
I spoke of November's coming and reunion,
and sweeter it could not have been.
But what of true winter's passions?
No poet or seer could have foretold
the fire that lit those longest nights.
The Bard made of parting: sweet sorrow,
but little ado of the moment of return.
It seems for us, an inevitable dance:
this sweet sorrow and then joyous release --
a wondrous thing to be defined by:
the promise of reunion.