Poems (Blake)/December

For works with similar titles, see December.
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DECEMBER.
Chill the night wind moans and sighs,On the sward the stubble dies;Slow across the meadows rankFloat the cloud-rifts grim and dank;On the hill-side, bare and brown,Twilight shadows gather down,         'Tis December.
Stark and gaunt the naked treesWrestle with the wrestling breeze,While beneath, at every breath,Dead leaves hold a dance of death;But the pine-trees' sighing graceGreenly decks the barren place,         In December.
Chirp of bird nor hum of beeBreaks across the barren lea;Only silence, cold and drear,Nestles closely far and near, ​While in cloak of russet gray,Nature hides her bloom away         With December.
Yet we know that, sleeping sound,Life is waiting underground;Till beneath his April skiesGod shall bid it once more rise,Warmth and light and beauty rest,Hushed and calm, upon the breast         Of December.
So, though sometime winter skiesHide the summer from our eyes,Taking from its old time placeSome dear form of love and grace,We can wait, content to bearBarren fields and frosted air,         Through December;
We can wait, till some sweet dawnFinds the shadows backward drawn,And beneath its rosy lightMay time flushes, warm and bright,Bring again the bloom that fledWhen the earth lay cold and dead         In December.
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