The year's wavering
Between these fogs and silences
That on the fields call forth the hours
Of steady council and iron hands.
So darkening to it's utterest day
When bracken bends to one thin line
And gray moors trade again
This dim misty dream of cold
For miles beneath from the hills.
The fire that burns to winter's end
Spread it's fogs from frozen brakes
And rivers of ice stream into mist
From stars wild out of the north
And nights lie dead in the early time
White knighted by the glittering reeds.
Crested by some tall Lord to a fire
Where silver goes stale against a moon
Aft of any point to a newer green
Burning from Arcturus to the sands
Seas going south take up this wind
Weedy with fathoms falling to land.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.