The Cold
Those leaves of Autumn have all withered
and Winter hexes freely cold
while ice grows stems on broken branches
to parch the trees of old

Crippled bark, frost-thick hark
those leaves that turned the palest hue
beneath the ashes of that Winter frost
to still in sadness Winter's cue
from dust to dust they weep forlorn
and grip in madness eyes of blue

Those leaves of Autumn that all withered
touch the sun remaining cold
and so they mourn an endless Winter
while we make our bread and sell our gold