Poems
DECEMBER
To Margaret
Greyness: the sea is still—
Still as a smooth grey glass.
Grey is the far-off hill,
Grey is the long, wet grass.
Still as a smooth grey glass.
Grey is the far-off hill,
Grey is the long, wet grass.
The trees have ceased from complaining—
And motionless stand; the wind
Sleeps; and the sun is straining
Through clouds like a god half blind.
And motionless stand; the wind
Sleeps; and the sun is straining
Through clouds like a god half blind.
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