Hilaire Belloc

“ The Summer dark is but the dawn of day.
The last of sunset grows into the morning,
The morning calls you from the dark away.
The holy mist, the white mist of the morning,
Was wreathing upward on my lonely way.
My way was waiting for your own adorning,
That should complete the broad adornéd day.
Rise up, and do begin the day’s adorning;
The little eastern clouds are dapple-gray,
There will be wind among the leaves to-day;
It is the very promise of the morning.
Lux tua via mea. Your light’s my way:
Oh, do rise up and make it perfect day. ”

“ And pour the Gascon stuff that laughs at weather;
Swell your tough lungs, north wind, no whit care we,
Singing old songs and drinking wine together.
[63] NOVEMBER.
November is some historied Emperor,
Conquered in age, but foot to foot with fate,
Who from his refuge high has caught the roar
Of squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late,
Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war,
And arms the garrison of his last heir-loom,
And shakes the sky to its extremest shore
With battle against irrevocable doom.
Till, driven and hurled from his strong citadels,
He flies in hurrying cloud ”

“ Burn, burn against the sunset; now the cold
Invades our very noon: the year’s grown old,
Mornings are dark, and evenings come apace.
The vines below have lost their purple grace,
And in Forrèze the white wrack backward rolled,
Hangs to the hills tempestuous, fold on fold,
And moaning gusts make desolate all the place.
Mine host the month, at thy good hostelry,
Tired limbs I’ll stretch and steaming beast I’ll tether ”