(He speaks)
The fog broods on the city white and chill,
Its tiny needles stinging keen like hail;
Across the sea, beyond the barren hill,
Continually the fog horns shrill and wail.
A tree climbs like a ghost from out the gloom,
Groping for sunlight with bare, skeleton hands;
And underneath, the fires of death and doom
Within her eyes, a gray-faced woman stands.
O my belovéd! in this strange, north place
Rush back old days that are forever new!
These shrill fog horns and this poor, haggard face
Remind by contrast of the June and you.
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