THE roofs are dreary with the drifted rime
And in the air a stillness as of death
Th'approach of some portentousness foresaith.
December comes, the tyrant of the time,
Vaunt-courier of the cold hybernal clime.
Mute is the world for misery; no breath
Nor stir of sound there is, that welcometh
The coming of the Winter's woeful prime.
'Alack! Was ever such a thing as Spring?'
We say, hand-holding to the hearths of Yule.
'Did ever roses blow or throstles sing?'
And in our ears the wild blast shrilleth, 'Fool,
That, in this world of ruin and decay,
Thy heart's hopes buildest on the Summer day!'