December

At evening jugglers travel through the forest On quaint wagons, small steeds. A golden stash seems locked in clouds. In the white plain villages are painted. The wind swings shield and billet black and cold. A raven follows the morose comrades. From the sky a ray falls on bloody gutters And placidly a funeral procession pilgrimages to the cemetery. The shepherd's hut dwindles nearby in the gray, In the pond a brilliance of old treasures glistens; The farmers sit down in the tavern for wine. A boy glides shyly to a woman. One still sees the sexton in the vestry And reddish utensils, beautiful and dim.