On A Midwinter's Eve

I wrote this poem last winter, upon trying out some new styles of image language, while reflecting on the beauty of the last months of the year with a feeling of nostalgia for the wane of life and light amid the cold and dreary days of December. My hope was to convey a mood that instills a sense for the absence of things remembered fondly, creating an impression of the loneliness perceived from the loss of things that have been. I have a great love for image poetry, and a lot of my writing tends toward that direction; while this poem features fairly complex imagery, I think that if you bear with me, and take the time to sift through the words and rhyme, you'll be pleasantly surprised. Thanks! 

The watches of the evening cold

Descend upon the candled den;

The dark-lit room aflood of gold

Her latticed window glistens then,

Its crystal pane with frostwork crown'd,

Mosaicked-amber rime aglow;

In shadows low, the frozen ground

Outside is whisked with falling snow.

Down yon, the dooryard's wintered wall,

All trellised white with hawthorn locks

And hoarfrost wreaths of evenfall,

Farewells the summer hollyhocks.

The garden-court, its snow-banked loam

The alder green bides cold and bare,

Where, oft, in springtide, she may roam –

Now none take pause to wander there.

The rain-glazed road, where street-lamps once

The azure way, in gloaming hour,

Shone pale-gold in autumn months,

Lies dark and still 'neath twilight's lour.

And, weeping o'er the moon-gleamed white,

The frore-lad'n yew, of wither'd withes,

Up, on the moors, a mist-veiled light

Unshrouds thro' silver-tresséd shives.

Tho' rarely e'er should any know

Such subtle beauties as are these –

For, seldom there I stray to go,

Out, from my door, 'mong th' glittering trees –

Yet, when the dying hearth I leave,

From high, where sleeps the candled den,

To saunter, hushed, the snowy eve,

'Tis dreams of yore that warm me then.