‘Still and chill’

February by Edith Nesbit (1858 – 1924)

The trees stand brown against the grey,
The shivering grey of field and sky;
The mists wrapt round the dying day
The shroud poor days wear as they die:
Poor day, die soon, who lived in vain,
Who could not bring my Love again!

Down in the garden breezes cold
Dead rustling stalks blow chill between;
Only, above the sodden mould,
The wallflower wears his heartless green
As though still reigned the rose-crowned year
And summer and my Love were here.

The mists creep close about the house,
The empty house, all still and chill;
The desolate and trembling boughs
Scratch at the dripping window sill:
Poor day lies drowned in floods of rain,
And ghosts knock at the window pane.

Landscape view looking down Bilsdale from Tripsdale, in February. Copyright NYMNPA.This poem is particularly good at describing the dank chill feelings of February.