The Conqueror

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Title:     The Conqueror
Author: Olive Tilford Dargan [More Titles by Dargan]

O Spring, that flutter'st the slow Winter by,
To drop thy buds before his frosty feet,
Dost thou not grieve to see thy darlings lie
In trodden death, and weep their beauty sweet?
Yet must thou cast thy tender offering,
And make thy way above thy mourned dead,
Or frowning Winter would be always king,
And thou wouldst never walk with crowned head.
So gentle Love must make his venturous way
Among the shaken buds of his own pain;
And many a hope-blown garland meekly lay
Before the chilly season of disdain;
But as no beauty may the Spring outglow,
So he, when throned, no greater lord doth know.

[The end]
Olive Tilford Dargan's poem: Conqueror

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