I am but a gleaming end

An epilogue in ice and frost

to lay in slumber upon branch and bend

I am but a passer by

my time checked by waning day

Limited though I rule this sky

I am but the last farewell

the closing line to the wheele

the clocks turning, I hear my bell

I am but a moment’s thrill

Though my touch can bring such glee

The spring, it comes, to thaw my chill

And though the warmth draws a tear

I pay it no mind

My time will come, again, next year.