When smiling Summer's charms are past, <br />The voice of music dies; <br />Then Winter pours his chilling blast <br />From rough inclement skies. <br /> <br />The pensive dove shuts up her throat, <br />The larks forbear to soar, <br />Or raise one sweet, delightful note, <br />Which charm'd the ear before. <br /> <br />The screech-owl peals her shivering tone <br />Upon the brink of night; <br />As some sequestered child unknown, <br />Which feared to come in sight. <br /> <br />The cattle all desert the field, <br />And eager seek the glades <br />Of naked trees, which once did yield <br />Their sweet and pleasant shades. <br /> <br />The humming insects all are still, <br />The beetles rise no more. <br />The constant tinkling of the bell, <br />Along the heath is o'er. <br /> <br />Stern Boreas hurls each piercing gale <br />With snow-clad wings along, <br />Discharging volleys mixed with hail <br />Which chill the breeze of song. <br /> <br />Lo, all the Southern windows close, <br />Whence spicy breezes roll; <br />The herbage sinks in sad repose, <br />And Winter sweeps the whole. <br /> <br />Thus after youth old age comes on, <br />And brings the frost of time, <br />And e'er our vigor has withdrawn, <br />We shed the rose of prime. <br /> <br />Alas! how quick it is the case, <br />The scion youth is grown-- <br />How soon it runs its morning race, <br />And beauty's sun goes down. <br /> <br />The Autumn of declining years <br />Must blanch the father's head, <br />Encumbered with a load of cares, <br />When youthful charms have fled.<br /><br />George Moses Horton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-winter/
