Now comes an end to quiet summer days 
   And to frail loveliness. In the still night
Cold death has crept about the garden ways     
   To wrap at last about each blossom bright
   Its funeral garment white.     
And where a million cruel prisms blaze,     
Ironically now, the sun's kind rays 
   Shine but to blast and blight.       

One hour of beauty on this shining morn —-
   White, mocking beauty while the frost rime clings.
Then bud and blossom, fashioned to adorn
   The earth, are now a heap of blackened things.
   All loveliness takes wings.
And yet not all! Still in a land forlorn,
Most valiantly by a glowing thorn,
   A grey thrush sweetly sings.    

"Den"
Herald, 30 March 1932 and The Advertiser, 2 April 1932, p8