Chill is the season, yet so bright the rays
The sun diffuses from his northern home,
That, like a well-proved friend who distant strays
His spell beneficent is slow to roam.
The woods are bright, although their sheen grows less,
Like bride who lays her wedding-garb aside;
The waters sparkle, though in mellowness.
Like beauty's smile when youth has veiled its pride.
The hoar-frost marks the grassy lawn at morn,
But fades when the first matin beam appears,
Till earth grows bright, as those erewhile forlorn,
Joy when their hope a sunlit aspect wears.
We miss the leafless wood, the frost-bound earth,
The waters sealed within their icy bed;
We miss the snow that folds the autumn's birth.
Like shrouds that lie around the early dead.