Too long has winter held thy breast in chain,
And frost has sealed the portals of desire;
Thou thought’st the night, with its relentless pain,
Would quench for aye the soul’s internal fire.
But see! A beam penetrates the mist so gray,
The golden touch that dries the tearful eye;
The northern winds in silence fade away,
As sap ascends beneath a gentler sky.
Before thou giv’st thy heart to foreign hands,
Learn first to tend the garden of thine own;
Within thy spirit, where the blossom stands,
Let self-regard be firmly, deeply sown.
For spring returns with greenery more vast,
Love does not die, it merely shifts its sphere;
Embrace the hope that heals the broken past,
And watch the stars of destiny appear.
Drawing upon the rich imagery of Romanticism, these verses suggest that a broken heart is not an end, but a dormant season waiting for the inevitable warmth of self-acceptance to bloom once more.
