The sun that brief December day rose cheerless over hills of gray, and darkly circled, gave at noon a sadder light than the waning moon.
Oh for boyhood’s time of June, crowding years in one brief moon when all things I heard or saw, me, their master, waited for.
Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing Under the sky’s gray arch; Smiling, I watch the shaken elm-boughs, knowing It is the wind of March.
