Eleven seasons have gone by
Since that last day of July,
When the eyes of this marred man
Took in your silhoutte in just one span.
Perhaps it was your beauty; or the Sun.
But a spell of sorts had then begun.
Now, as March draws to a close,
The twelfth season is to come.
Thus, as we leave behind Winter's cold
And come fully into warm Spring's hold,
We ought to realize and deduce
That trance alone is of no use,
And by Love's law it must abide
So that sweet Grace may be its guide.