In the grip of Winter

I spell Winter with a capital letter,
and acknowledge that in its fatal "grip"
doth downward the soul descend.

Whether light, that lacketh in the Dim
of darkened Days, is the problem,
I'll admit no knowledge,
Or whether a spirit that dwelleth
in light of the Summer's Sun set the anchor so that,
winds who blow in gray winter taketh away our soul, as did the fish
die and disappear and an epoch change,
and the old die, too.

This, it may well be debated, is Time's trick upon us,
that we must bide the hours slowly as if in Infinity, nay! Eternity.