December Sonnet - Poem by Georg Trakl
At evening jugglers travel through the forest
On quaint wagons, small steeds.
A golden stash seems locked in clouds.
In the dark plain villages are painted.
The red wind billows linen black and cold.
A dog rots, a shrub smokes blood-doused.
The reed is flown through by yellow horror
And placidly a funeral procession pilgrimages to the cemetery.
The old man's hut dwindles nearby in the gray,
In the pond a brilliance of old treasures glistens;
The farmers sit down in the tavern for wine.
A boy glides shyly to a woman.
A monk fades in the darkness soft and dark.
A bleak tree is a sleeper's sexton.
Comments about December Sonnet by Georg Trakl
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye