POEMS.
77
THE SONG OF DECEMBER.
Sternly I come with my aspect drear,
For no beauty my presence hath,
Not a flower to twine round my temples sere,
And the snow-wreath clouds my path.
While the skeleton arms of the leafless trees
Wave high when my face they see,
And sad is the moan of the evening breeze,
As it whispers its tale to me;
List to its cry as it steals o'er the plain,
"Chilling December comes hither again."
For no beauty my presence hath,
Not a flower to twine round my temples sere,
And the snow-wreath clouds my path.
While the skeleton arms of the leafless trees
Wave high when my face they see,
And sad is the moan of the evening breeze,
As it whispers its tale to me;
List to its cry as it steals o'er the plain,
"Chilling December comes hither again."
Wild sweep the clouds through the wintry sky,
When I come in my might so strong,
With a shivering sound does the wind rush by,
As it beareth my car along.
The rocking bark on the troubled sea
Bends down to my cutting blast,
And the mad waves lower their crests to me,
When my shadow is o'er them cast:
Hark to their voice as they dash o'er the main,
"Storm December, thou comest again."
When I come in my might so strong,
With a shivering sound does the wind rush by,
As it beareth my car along.
The rocking bark on the troubled sea
Bends down to my cutting blast,
And the mad waves lower their crests to me,
When my shadow is o'er them cast:
Hark to their voice as they dash o'er the main,
"Storm December, thou comest again."
