Out of the Northland sombre weirds are calling; <br />A shadow falleth southward day by day; <br />Sad summers arms grow cold; his fire is falling; <br />His feet draw back to give the stern one way. <br /> <br />It is the voice and shadow of the slayer, <br />Slayer of loves, sweet world, slayer of dreams; <br />Make sad thy voice with sombre plaint and prayer; <br />Make gray thy woods, and darken all they streams. <br /> <br />Black grows the river, blacker drifts the eddy: <br />The sky is grey; the woods are cold below: <br />Oh make the bosom, and thy sad lips ready, <br />For the cold kisses of the folding snow.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-coming-of-winter-2/
