Last hours

A gray day and quiet,

With slow clouds that pass,

And in dull air a cloud that hangs, hangs

All day.

The naked and stiff branches

Of oak, elm, thorn,

In the cold light are like men aged and

Forlorn.

Only a gray sky,

Grass, trees, grass again,

And all the air a cloud that drips, drips,

All day.

Lovelier now the last hours of slow winter

Slowly pass.