The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.
Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.
The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o'er the plain;
While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.
The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell;
Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.
Excellent portrayal of nature's manifestations during an afternoon in February. Thanks for sharing it here.
Nothing like curling up with a poem by the Master. He has much to teach us about the art of writing.
Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red ............like this poem very much....excellent write..
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Are Like Gay And Like They Like Suck My Like Dike Y'know Like