Unattained Poem by Ina D. Coolbrith

In winter time one steadfast hope I had:
When rains should cease to fall,
And earth resummoned all
Her blossom-quests, I should again be glad.

And then my heart unlifted still, I said,
“Too pallid and too chill
These skies; wait yet until
The summer’s serene blue smiles overhead.”

Its red the rose surrenders to the leaves;
The orchard branches yield
Their fruit, and far a-field
The reapers sing amid their gathered sheaves.

The circle of the year is all complete:
And in her wintry hour,
In fruitage or in flower,
I know the world is very fair and sweet.

Yet, O, not here the peace I long for dwells:
But past the restful night
Of death, within the light
Of God, amid unfading asphodels.