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.