West Eros

If the spring should never come
Nor the summer, not the fall,
If the winter conquers all
And we find a way to plumb
Deeper depths of cold, far from
Any hope, however small,
That the slush will cease its sprawl:
Omnipresent, grey, and glum.
Even then, in such a time,
Frozen, frustrate, desperate, I
In that underseasoned clime
With no end to freezing nigh
Would be cheered and warmed by you
The eternal winter through.