Poems (Sackville)/December
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.
The trees have ceased from complaining— And motionless stand; the windSleeps; and the sun is straining Through clouds like a god half blind.
Pallid the island seems, A phantom, as though the dayHeld 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.
Swans on broad pinions follow, 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 month stands shoulder to shoulder With Autumn and Winter, wetSad mists surround and enfold her; The sun of the year is set.