Marching

 

The year is marching into spring,

As bright soft shoots caress the earth,

The nettles green as catkins burst.

Some gilding for a greater worth.

 

Go count your money, grasp a coin,

Buy now your place in space and time,

Rise up your monument of stone,

Or walk among the sweet sublime.

 

Today I saw some ewes with lambs,

The raw wind causing them no harm,

For like a thousand decades past,

To them the sun was blessed balm.

 

While shade permits the frosted edge,

The rising sap has flexed the bough,

And what was brindle browning dry,

Has felt the breath of wonder now.

 

As I grow old these winters hurt,

Their pain entire in blood and bone,

Like sin the seasons ice my soul,

With spring no gift to help atone.

 

This allegory for all our days,

When seasons turn and powers fade,

Where even lambs that skip in spring,

Will fail to make the butchers grade.

 

Cut roses from this blessed earth,

Speak promise from a loving slave,

And flowers within the brides bouquet,

Still bear their beauty at the grave.

 

What beauty is you cannot state,

What beauty finds is rich and rare,

What beauty seeks is out of reach,

What beauty brings might be despair.

 

So brace upon the battle grounds,

With armies marshalled for the fight,

Soft shoots as sharp as bayonets,

A halberd for the rich and right.

 

The year is marching into spring,

With me the vanguard of the cause,

The nettles green, the catkins burst,

With gilding for the great applause.