December

When the feud of hot and cold     Leaves the autumn woodlands bare; When the year is getting old,     And flowers are dead, and keen the air; When the crow has new concern,     And early sounds his raucous note; And—where the late witch-hazels burn—     The squirrel from a chuckling throat Tells that one larder’s space is filled,     And tilts upon a towering tree; And, valiant, quick, and keenly thrilled,     Upstarts the tiny chickadee; When the sun’s still shortening arc     Too soon night’s shadows dun and gray Brings on, and fields are drear and dark,     And summer birds have flown away,— I feel the year’s slow-beating heart,     The sky’s chill prophecy I know; And welcome the consummate art     Which weaves this spotless shroud of snow!