Lone Sentinel

We know the hour’s growing late

Yet many songs remain unsung.

Now is not the time to hate

Too many bells remain unrung.

Outside, that world is growing dim

Darkness builds in gathering night,

Frigid wailing beyond the rim

Of this tiny candle’s light.

This little pool to which we cling,

This spot of warmth against the chill,

Where we await the return of spring

With nothing but our faith and will.

We can’t defeat that howling cold

Without this flame which we behold.

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