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