First Winter-Song
T
ake my tidings!
Stags contend;
Snows descend—
Summer's end!
A chill wind raging;
The sun low keeping,
Swift to set
O'er seas high sweeping.
Dull red the fern;
Shapes are shadows:
Wild geese mourn
O'er misty meadows.
Keen cold limes
Each weaker wing.
Icy times—
Such I sing!
Take my tidings!
Alfred Perceval Graves.