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Edith Nesbit - February
Work rating: Low

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.
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