Poesie Abrutie

I

The brooks are bristling in the field,
Now, brooks are bristling in the fields
And gelid Januar has gone to hell.

II

The water puddles puddles are
And ice is still in Februar.
It still is ice in Februar.

III

The figures of the past go cloaked.
They walk in mist and rain and snow
And go, go slowly, but they go.

IV

The greenhouse on the village green
Is brighter than the sun itself.
Cineraiias have a speaking sheen.