Edith Nesbit

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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