The Gloaming Lays

As old as I well versed in winter pains,
Weighs poorly on the words that I indite
Whilst stalks the darkling verse as evening strains
The ink into its own decaying light.
What hoary bard would write of this domain,
Would I then profit wisdom and repair?
Such foolishness, yet why should I complain,
Lest I would wane from hope into despair.
Yet wait not for the ending of the day,
The fading ink that stains the turning leaf.
No good will come of it who turns away,
Rolls darkness with the light in joy and grief.
Still sings the bard but never would deny,
The gloaming lays of winter passing by.