Now in November nearer comes the sun
down the abandoned heaven.
As the dark closes round him, he draws nearer
as if for our company.
At the base of the lower brain
the sun in me declines to his winter solstice
and darts a few gold rays
back to the old year’s sun across the sea.
A few gold rays thickening down to red
as the sun of my soul is setting
setting fierce and undaunted, wintry
but setting, setting behind the sounding sea between my ribs.
The wide sea wins, and the dark,
winter, and the great day-sun, and the sun in my soul
sinks, sinks to setting and the winter solstice
downward, they race in decline
my sun, and the great gold sun.