SLOW on the waning landscape creeps the night, On hill and plain the gathering shadows fall, Till, last, soft darkness like a velvet pall, Veils all the fading fields and blinds the sight; Then from the hidden hamlets here and there, From hillside cot, or stately mansion fair, Clear through the frosty, or the milder air, Twinkles home's beacon-light. Dear, swift December evenings, home-lier far Than are June's perfumed twilights, warm and still, Her saffron skies, and primrose evening star, Her golden sunsets on the purple hill, Her sports upon the green, her village boys Chasing the bounding ball with merry noise, Her dreaming lovers' visionary joys Which fill young spirits still. Thine is a sober loveliness, denied To those glad twilights of triumphant June, When all the flower-lit fields are glorified, And Love and Youth move to a joyous tune; Too strong, too fast, the impetuous pulses come. Too restless for the calm content of home, Too far afield the impatient fancies roam In Life's young Summer-tide. But thou, in solemn robes of sombre grey, The wayward, wandering fancy dost recall, Thy star-sprent mantle hides the dying day, Gently thy kindly, brooding shadows fall; By June's rich voice Love's melodies are sung, The glad, the blithe unreason of the young; Thine the low tranquil tones, the silvery tongue Which calms and comforts all. Fall, swift December evening, not with snow, Rude blast, or drenching rain, but clear and fine, With breathless calm, or West-wind whispering low, Till Yule-tide brings again its hope divine! Summer is gone, with anxious hopes and fears; Life's tranquil, wintry joys, its precious tears, The lamp that lights, the hearth which warms and cheers, Are all, are only, thine! |