The time I stretch the calendar

Is toward the end of the year,

When summer and spring are long ago,

And the storms are near.

As now, with one light by,

I am writing late in bed,

But not to make tonight not end

Till I get it said.

It is the months of last summer,

After the year and a half of spring,

When April was from March till June

Uncalendaring.

Before that, it was September

All summer coming on,

And all that time and earlier,

No flowers gone.

Though I look back in history, I cannot see as far

As winter, if there was one.

What winters are,

If this is winter at my window,

Must be as black, as blown,

Dizzy with cold, as the bottomless

Unknown.