I don’t remember ever reading this piece of Belloc’s poetry. It is lovely.
Hoar Time about the house betakes him slow,
Seeking an entry for his weariness;
And in that dreadful company Distress
And the sad Night with silent footsteps go.
On my poor fire the brands are scarce aglow,
And in the woods without what memories press;
Where, waning in the trees from less to less,
Mysterious bangs the hornèd moon, and low.
For now December, full of aged care,
Comes in upon the yea and weakly grieves,
Mumbling his lost desires and his despair;
And with mad trembling hand still interweaves
The dank sear flower-stalks tangled in his hair,
While round about him whirl the rotten leaves.
– Hilaire Belloc