O time was round and winding down and running away to graves When new new year's eve reared from the fleet defeat Of December done, no night rememberers of Christ come Through the long tunnel of the new year's breaking track. Downy towers of January snow shag both bush and branch In glitter stillness the minutes wait until all minutes stop. February finds none merry and March comes round A wet, whipped hound, an everything month with a lion's mouth. Steep cries the creeping clock, punishing, punishing, And December's mercies vanish. O time was round and winding down and running away to graves When Spring came singing thorough tulips swinging, In the dew-raw dawn of the baby year. April's dripping Lips lick the last icy eve, and winter eve drains to day, Till May comes baying tame in the tender green of trees, Walkways pink with cherrytree drifts. O June and her rumors! every seed's ripe grew true Loaded hours unfolded red, brimful full as honeydews. July saw life's celebrants, undimmed, rear bright as stars And life sang easy in a million backyards. Old August sweated swarthy with his layabout breath, And no one moved, hoved home in simmer and sloth. O time was round and winding down and running away to graves As sweet September saw sad dogs barking mad at school bus windows. Dooms of October boomed through the trees And autumn fell broken as the many-voiced sea, Washing summer rinds to the feathering waves. Now November chimes white again, ringing its icicle dimes, Sticks stark as daggers, brown before thrown snow begins And December stumbles to the resurrecting stage, the saving season Where sailor hope climbs winter's cross-spar to spy Olive-leaved Spring somewhen far-off in the scenting wind.