Sonnet Part 7

The white dove perched on a bough beholds

Winter's gripping languish on time and growth

She waits for spring's reign, nature's comely oath

To wash this land with hues of bright and bold

This veil will thaw for a vernal threshold

Inducing spring's burgeoning undergrowth

And verdant marquees for sweet warmth to clothe

The white dove waits for such allure to unfold

Renaissance of motivation and sense

Will be plied to pretermit brumal days.

Time and turns pursue at your own expense

Bitter doubt, cold jealousy to dispense 

Idle hands' aptitude for lavish praise

The white dove bides for a shift in conscience