Sonnet

Cold! bitter cold!—the northern breezes now
     Down from their ice-mailed mountain-tops are coming;
     And in their breath the withered leaflets humming
Tell of the winter. Low the forests bow, 
And shower their honors on his icy brow;
     While naked hills confess the iron reign 
     Of the stern monarch, over earth again.
Spring's living green hath faded, and the light 
     Of queenlier Summer has at last departed:
Passed is the golden harvest, and the bright
     Autumnal fields are of their flocks deserted;
     And like a pilgrim faint and heavy-hearted, 
With travel long and weary toil oppressed,
The Year hath run his race and sunk to quiet rest.