December
Pallid the island seems,
A phantom, as though the day
Held fast one of night's pale dreams
Which fled not with night away.
A phantom, as though the day
Held fast one of night's pale dreams
Which fled not with night away.
Grey is the sky—the river
Reflects the face of the sky;
The wings of a wild swan quiver
And creak as they rustle by.
Reflects the face of the sky;
The wings of a wild swan quiver
And creak as they rustle by.
Swans on broad pinions follow,
Great wings, far-reaching and grey;
The living thoughts of the hollow
Sad mind of the brooding day.
Great wings, far-reaching and grey;
The living thoughts of the hollow
Sad mind of the brooding day.
Rain on the hills—on the fields—
The paths are heavy and drear;
The paths are heavy and drear;
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