Poems (Sackville)/December
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For works with similar titles, see December.
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.
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;
Dead harvests the dead wood yields,
Dead leaves for the dying year.
The paths are heavy and drear;
Dead harvests the dead wood yields,
Dead leaves for the dying year.
The month stands shoulder to shoulder
With Autumn and Winter, wet
Sad mists surround and enfold her;
The sun of the year is set.
With Autumn and Winter, wet
Sad mists surround and enfold her;
The sun of the year is set.