February

THE trees stand brown against the gray, The shivering gray of field and sky; The mists wrapt round the dying day The shroud poor days wear as they die: Poor day, die soon, who lived in vain, Who could not bring my Love again! Down in the garden breezes cold Dead rustling stalks blow chill between; Only, above the sodden mould, The wallflower wears his heartless green As though still reigned the rose-crowned year And summer and my Love were here. The mists creep close about the house, The empty house, all still and chill; The desolate and trembling boughs Scratch at the dripping window sill: Poor day lies drowned in floods of rain, And ghosts knock at the window pane.