Page:Impressions- A Book of Verse.djvu/87

 DECEMBER

OLD winds have swept the frozen furrows bare The leaves, Spring's whilom messengers and summer's pride Now brown, unsightly rustle through the air And soon in sodden heaps are pushed aside. All birds are silent save the sullen crow Who croaks exultant o'er the year's defeat. Why does this desolate season fairer show Than all the glory that made summer sweet? This miracle, dear Love, thy voice has wrought, For which in vain I listened, listened long; While waiting Summer's beauty went as nought: Now all seems loveliness and full of song!