JANUARY DUSK

Austere and clad in sombre robes of grey,

With hands upfolded and with silent wings,

In unimpassioned mystery the day

Passes; a lonely thrush its requiem sings.

The dust of night is tangled in the boughs

Of leafless lime and lilac, and the pine

Grows blacker, and the star upon the brows

Of sleep is set in heaven for a sign.

Earth’ s little weary peoples fall on peace

And dream of breaking buds and blossoming,

Of primrose airs, of days of large increase,

And all the coloured retinue of spring.