Gray Days
A soaking sedge,A faded field, a leafless hill and hedge,
Low clouds and rain,And loneliness and languor worse than pain.
Mottled with moss,Each gravestone holds to heaven a patient Cross.
Shrill streaks of lightTwo sycamores’ clean-limbed, funereal white,
And low between,The sombre cedar and the ivy green.
Upon the stoneOf each in turn who called this land his own
The gray rain beatsAnd wraps the wet world in its flying sheets,
And at my eavesA slow wind, ghostlike, comes and grieves and grieves.