The white dove perched on a bough beholds


    Winter''s gripping languish on time and growth


    She waits for spring''s reign, nature''s comely oath


    To wash this land with hues of bright and bold


    This veil will thaw for a vernal threshold


    Inducing spring''s burgeoning undergrowth


    And verdant marquees for sweet warmth to clothe


    The white dove waits for such allure to unfold


    Renaissance of motivation and sense


    Will be plied to pretermit brumal days.


    Time and turns pursue at your own expense


    Bitter doubt, cold jealousy to dispense


    Idle hands'' aptitude for lavish praise


    The white dove bides for a shift in conscience