Showing posts from January, 2014

Winter Woods

Winter woods aren't desolate As they would seem to be, For beauty dwells at every turn For searching eyes to see.
The black of trees is ermine trimmed; Each bush is wearing lace And Nature's spread with lavish hand White velvet every place.

Where winter sunrays lightly touch The ice-encrusted stream, Upon its crystal countenance A thousand diamonds gleam.

No, winter woods aren't desolate-- There's beauty enough to spare; And those in search of loveliness Will surely find it there.
   Virginia Blanck Moore   The Best of Ideals ©1978