DECEMBER
COLD winds have swept the frozen furrows bare
The leaves, Spring's whilom messengers and summer's pride
Now brown, unsightly rustle through the air
And soon in sodden heaps are pushed aside.
All birds are silent save the sullen crow
Who croaks exultant o'er the year's defeat.
Why does this desolate season fairer show
Than all the glory that made summer sweet?
This miracle, dear Love, thy voice has wrought,
For which in vain I listened, listened long;
While waiting Summer's beauty went as nought:
Now all seems loveliness and full of song!
