THE BLEAK OF THE YEAR by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON

THERE is a time of subtle browns, and grays
That run to silverings, and tremulous greens,
And russet tints, and ash-pale pools of leaves;
Of ghostly mosses and elusive grass
That's neither lush nor dead; of naked trees
Ineffably harmonious with the sky
That stretches vast and neutral, tone on tone,
Not to be called a color, but a thought.
To some this is a barren time, a sleep
Between the winter and the spell of spring;
To me it is the heart's own time and tide,
Being hidden from the heedless eye that lusts
For flaring lights and sunset dyes, yet charged
With secrets rare, and blendings into dreams,
And ecstasies divine that shadow forth
A mystery, the Selah of the Soul.

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