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Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Afternoon landscape: poems and translations, December. (search)
December. The evening sky unseals its quiet fountain, Hushing the silence to a drowsy rain; It spreads a web of dimness o'er the plain And round each meadow tree; Makes this steep river-bank a dizzy mountain, And this wide stream a sea. Stealing from upper headlands of deep mist, The dark tide bears its icebergs ocean bound, White shapeless voyagers, by each other kissed, With rustling, ghostly sound; The lingering oak-leaves sigh, the birches shiver, Watching the wrecks of summer far and near, Where many a dew-drop, frozen on its bier, Drifts down the dusky river. I know thee not, thou giant elm, who towerest With shadowy branches in the murky air; And this familiar grove, once light and fair, Frowns, an Enchanted Forest. Couldst thou not choose some other night to moan, O hollow-hooting owl? There needs no spell from thy bewildered soul; I'm ghost enough alone.