Winter's cold and frosty hand,
Long hast lingered on the land--
Ere a prophet comes at long last,
A prisoner was he to men, alas!
A prisoner to set them free
To follow the man upon a tree.

Soon would come the thaw of spring,
The land once bleak with cold's sting,
Would bloom and blossom and awake,
And old night would be slip away!
From sin's stain the land would be clean,
As colors changed from gray to green.

In the summer's heat and longer days,
Saint Patrick's teaching spreads and stays,
The Church's banner soon would stand,
Where pagan Roman feet never did land!
Even sin would for a time seem to flee
From that land so free of heresy.

Until at last came the fall to witness,
A new scene of frightful distress:
Saint Patrick is now long gone away,
And the faithful are lead horribly astray!
The leaves' colors began their slow change
From vibrant green to faded orange.

Now soon will winter's cold night return,
The faithful witnesses will begin to yearn
For the days of Ireland's first saint,
He whose memories seem lost and feint!
Saint Patrick in a tomb sleeping lies,
And portents spell of the Faith's demise.

Yet under the weary winter snow and gloom,
Hides the planted germ of next spring's bloom--
For though Patrick's spirit slowly dies,
Like the sun of spring it will again arise.
Hence the Faithful must not lose heart:
For God's grace will not forever depart.