Poetry Archives

Out of the Northland sombre weirds are calling;
  A shadow falleth southward day by day;
Sad summers arms grow cold; his fire is falling;
  His feet draw back to give the stern one way.

It is the voice and shadow of the slayer,
  Slayer of loves, sweet world, slayer of dreams;
Make sad thy voice with sombre plaint and prayer;
  Make gray thy woods, and darken all they streams.

Black grows the river, blacker drifts the eddy:
  The sky is grey; the woods are cold below:
Oh make the bosom, and thy sad lips ready,
  For the cold kisses of the folding snow.