December

The dawn is cold and still and clear,
The ground is crisp with morning frost;
We wake, all torn by grief and fear
And longing for the life we lost.
Light candles in the window-pane,
Adorn the trees with Christmas gold;
Our fleeting comforts wax and wane;
The day is young, the year grows old.
We youthful lovers yield and sigh,
And know that our flames, too, shall die.

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