THE trees stand brown against the gray, <br />The shivering gray of field and sky; <br />The mists wrapt round the dying day <br />The shroud poor days wear as they die: <br />Poor day, die soon, who lived in vain, <br />Who could not bring my Love again! <br /> <br /> <br />Down in the garden breezes cold <br />Dead rustling stalks blow chill between; <br />Only, above the sodden mould, <br />The wallflower wears his heartless green <br />As though still reigned the rose-crowned year <br />And summer and my Love were here. <br /> <br /> <br />The mists creep close about the house, <br />The empty house, all still and chill; <br />The desolate and trembling boughs <br />Scratch at the dripping window sill: <br />Poor day lies drowned in floods of rain, <br />And ghosts knock at the window pane.<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/february-18/
