the ride of winter

winter rides a poor gray mare through the township and hills of St. Clare, ice on his saddle frost in this coal black hair, a young-ling with a sword not swift but sure, his cloak of lily's white his boots of doe skin his gait like a king his demeanor a fool's kin graceful and lithe not wary but with a bent and mind to ring merry, I and my aged bones are quite glad as he bids his leave though the children wax sad and the young women grieve