Poetry
Elegiac
MicrrAEr. and I were gathering Fir-cones at brisk September fall, Boiling and seething all above us The woodlands bellowed, squall on squall.
The wind, like any buxom Lad Unprisoned from his nursery, Ran daftly everywhither bowling Huge clouds for hoops about the sky.
Sleek as a robin, gay as lire, Went Michael the adventurer ; They leaped, they laughed—the wind and Michael, They pelted me with cones of fir.
Now through the woodlands the spent year Her flags of treaty has unfurled, Billowing snow that washes colour And sound and motion off the world.
Frozen o'erhead the white clouds are Like water-lilies ice has sealed Beneath a lily pond in slumber, Imagined there, but unrevealed.
The boughs sleep out their snowy trance, Bereaved not, who can dream of May And green reveilk : mine a December That no Maytide will melt away.
0 wind, keep shut your cold pinched lips ;
Silence is fairest requiem For woodland things that once were lovely, Now Michael lies in earth with them.
CECIL DAY LCWig.
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