The sun sets on another low, ineffectual day,
Over which its tired arc all but cleared the treetops.
Here, in the twilight of the century’s sixteenth year,
It seems one awakes to the dying of the light.
In the early gloom of every evening,
Christmas decorations shimmer listlessly,
Alone in a sad crowd of black-clad shadows;
Marble tombs in a busy burial ground.
In every home from Dover to Scotland’s Oban,
Curtains screen young and old from the cold,
And from the fear that leers through the glass:
The fear of another failed and fading year.