The Mile to December’s Hill

The ghost of December swathes me tonight

in veils of mist and ice and Winter frost…

the moon is cold and offers no fond light,

I wander alone and am gladly lost.

Birds are silent in this starless evening,

the smoke of clouds is thick with endless grief…

the old vision of thy face is swelling

in every place I’ve been, however brief.

I sojourn through valleys, the tireless mile,

the meadowed lands of youth left behind…

I would linger here to see the day smile,

but since my death, she has not again shined…

What thought will drive the empty heart to kill?

The same that found me dead upon thy hill.