Hoar thespian of ghastly roles,
no more that mad antagonist
who slants before the polar door
and brandishes a bogus sword
to barricade the one escape,

what drama might you muster up
within your self-made discontent
once Spring outwits you here tonight
upon this stage no longer white
from icy lights and deathly snow
now flowers rise and you must go?

Yes, shout your bleak soliloquy,
that gasping speech to close this play.
Let winds rage one last time, and stay
until you ring your final breath
and feign a most theatric death,
as if we know not you live on
and shall return when Autumn's gone.