It is winter in my garden, The naked branches of the shrubs Betray the wounds of Pruner's knife. It is winter in my heart, The ghost of half-remembered fear Chills to desolation My spirit. It is winter in my garden. The shriveled mummy of a summer's flower is gaunt; I must remember to give it Burial. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE GREAT DEATH by HAYDEN CARRUTH WHAT WE SAID THE LIGHT SAID by JAMES GALVIN DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 2. LOS CIGARILLOS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON EPITAPH IN A CHURCH-YARD IN CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA by AMY LOWELL TO A FRIEND WRITING ON CABARET DANCERS by EZRA POUND |