Winter is
Of the dismal mornings
When the sun,
Spilling a wan light,
Labours over the raw edge of the earth

Of the days of the long shadows;
Of the days of the harsh cold;
The days of hunger
And starveling sparrows hopefully on the lawns.

This is the time of waiting;
And, staunchly,
The last, defeated chrysanthemums
Bow to the wind;
The demoniac, screaming wind
That tears the remnant leaves
Of tatterdemalion Autumn
From wilting trees.

This, too, is the time of old men
Gregariously in chimney corners,
Garrulous of Winters gone,
With the slow, warm comfort of mulled ale
And reminiscence



Other work by Namur King








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