December (1871 version)

I sit and listen to the long, low howl
     Of Winter, coming from his northern lair, 
Girded about with ice — the angry growl
     Of gathering storms upon the frosty air;
     And the complaining woods that everywhere 
Sob for the ravishing of their crowns of gold, 
Crimson, and purple, and the manifold
     Hues of the frost-fires, weird and wondrous fair. 
By ruffian winds. The brow of heaven, erewhile 
Bright with the glow of autumn's quivering smile,
     Now veils its beauty with the frequent frown;
     And from the streams that, laughing, leapt adown 
The rocky hill-sides, or along the valleys
     Glided with murmurous song, the song has fled,
     And the flowers, listening on the banks, are dead, 
Killed by the cruel frost. The Snow King rallies 
His white-plumed hosts, and sends them sweeping forth 
In bannered squadrons from the frozen North,
Squadron on squadron, till their legion fills 
The whole wide landscape, with its circling hills; 
And the old trees, that stand like sentinels 
To guard the passes winding through the dells 
Down to the levels of the open plain, 
Toss their nude branches to the hurricane,
     While in their tops a spirit seems to wail 
For the dead glories of the dying year — 
Its faded blossoms and its foliage sere,
     Swept like the chaff before the angry gale.