Till, driven and hurled from his strong citadels, He flies in hurrying cloud; and spurs him on Empty of lingerings, empty of farewells And final benedictions, and is gone. But in my garden all the trees have shed Their legacies of the light, and all the flowers are dead.
Hoar Time about the house betakes him slow, Seeking an entry for his weariness; And in that dreadful company, Distress And the sad Night with silent footsteps go. On my poor hearth the brands are scarce aglow, And in the woods without pale wanderers press; Where, waning in the pines from less to less, Mysterious hangs the hornéd moon, and low.
For now December, full of aged care, Comes in upon the year and weakly grieves, Mumbling his lost desires and his despair; And with mad, trembling hand still interweaves The dank sear flower-stalks tangled in his hair, While round about him whirl the rotten leaves.
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Verses and Sonnets, by Hilaire Belloc