December Evening

The black, iced sail of night thrums, thrums...
But the wind is weakening,
Now it falls away,
Drifting slowly down upon the Southern waste:
In the dark glass of my window
I see my hearth fire leaping among snowy zig-zags
Of winter boughs.
Oh, memories of youth,
Thus you flame among the snows of age
Without melting them!
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.