Tangled in Stars

Poems by
Ethelwyn Wetherald



November and December, and again
    November and December as before;
    Dead season on dead season, o’er and o’er,
Till leaflessness becomes most leafless. Then
Naught for the lips, except the sad Amen,
    Naught for the eyes, except the darkened door,
    And for this pleasant House of Leaves no more
The summer breezes with their light refrain.

November and December—ah, I hear
    Like unto heavy, sobbing winds, the old

        Novembers and Decembers mourn aloud.
No red leaf lights the darkness of the year;
    But only fire that grips the heart of cold,
        And stars that burn behind a world of cloud. [Page 44]