Classic Poem

Cold, deserted and silent,
She winds on without an eye lent,
Except perhaps from a stranger,
Himself a lonely ranger.

Trees are bare and still,
Seeming deathly ill
In the dead of Winter;
Yet without dissenter.

Thoughts go back to Summer,
When happily from her
We took joy galore
From her lively shore.

Yet, the scene presents a thrill
Though Summer now is nil;
Winter has a place
No season can erase.