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!
December
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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...
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