December

A voice is on the air—the long, low howl
     Of Winter coming from his frosty home,
     Over our pleasant valley-paths to roam,
Girt with his zone of ice. The roused winds growl,
     As maddened at his presence—and a frown
Sits on the brow of heaven, serene erewhile
In the faint glow of Autumn’s quivering smile.
The streams, ice-bound, move sluggishly along
To their own muffled, melancholy song.
     The tall old trees, robbed of their leafy crown,
Shake their nude branches to the eddying storm
     In fierce defiance, as it hurtles by—
     And dimly towering to the cloud-wrapt sky,
The Tempest-Spirit lifts his shadowy form!