Page:Poetical works of Mathilde Blind.djvu/475

Rh CHRISTMAS EVE.

THE EVENING OF THE YEAR.

mists enwrap the still-born day;

The harebell withers on the heath;

And all the moorland seems to breathe

The hectic beauty of decay.

Within the open grave of May

Dishevelled trees drop wreath on wreath;

Wind-wrung and ravelled underneath

Waste leaves choke up the woodland way.

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