Ever sweeter than its smell,
The field beneath the harvest moon
Where little Mary used to dwell,
And slumber to the sound of the loon,
But now she shall slumber forever,
And nothing I do can change that.
Her days are now all in December
And the love in my heart has gone flat.
The trumpets will not herald the day
For the hour is the dark eleven
And I long for a lost naïveté
So that I might imagine her in heaven,
And now all my thought shall linger
In that cold, wretched month of December

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