The Season of My Despair

It is a wondrous thing how fleet- was he on those heavy steel shod feet. With what a beautiful flowing grace he oft would gallop and race, then stay, then run again, and stay, and call to me to chase and play. He was agile more than wild hinds, and ran as if on four winds. He had a meadow all his own, but now with weeds so overgrown, that one certainly must guess it to be a patch of wilderness. And all the spring-time of the year he used to love to frolic there- among the clover leaves that spread, but they now too are gone to bed. And these churlish days that give aid to dull loneliness have made, this place an object of neglect, walled about in disrespect with false portals of light- that bring more sadness than delight- contributing their hurtful share to the season of my despair. But this too shall pass somehow- and this place again allow- a day that will spring gladness, from the very gall of sadness.