In fern no fire through frosted forest fans;
Still, orb-flung beams blaze through broke bracken shards.
Inked rays blank blanket raze: resurgent tans
Colour tint-tattooed ground as trooping guards.
Yet marshalled, here's a hue without a cry,
Causing no timbers tinderlike to crack
Or crash, as fire-forged glimmers sharply fly,
Pounding hurled hew and cry of lumberjack.
Sound sleeping, silver birches bunkered down,
Entrenched in Summer's soot-besotted bark,
Do pine for lichen's Spring-cling of a gown,
Exposed since leaf-flames singed or sang the lark.
Although snow's shroud seems redolent of death,
Die-cast, Sun's fern is redder-lent its breath!
