No more the scarlet maples flash and burn <br />Their beacon-fires from hilltop and from plain; <br />The meadow-grasses and the woodland fern <br />In the bleak woods lie withered once again. <br /> <br />The trees stand bare, and bare each stony scar <br />Upon the cliffs; half frozen glide the rills; <br />The steel-blue river like a scimitar <br />Lies cold and curved between the dusky hills. <br /> <br />Over the upland farm I take my walk, <br />And miss the flaunting flocks of golden-rod; <br />Each autumn flower a dry and leafless stalk, <br />Each Mossy field a track of frozen sod. <br /> <br />I hear no more the bobin's summer song <br />Through the gray network of the wintry woods; <br />Only the cawing crows that all day long <br />Clamor about the windy solitudes. <br /> <br />Like agate stones upon earth's frozen breast, <br />The little pools of ice lie round and still; <br />While sullen clouds shut downward east and west <br />In marble ridges stretched from hill to hill. <br /> <br />Come once again, O southern wind,-once more <br />Come with they wet wings flapping at my pane; <br />Ere snow-drifts pile their mounds about my door, <br />One parting dream of summer bring again. <br /> <br />Ah, no! I hear the windows rattle fast; <br />I see the first flakes of the gathering snow, <br />That dance and whirl before the northern blast. <br />No countermand the march of days can know. <br /> <br />December drops no weak, relenting tear, <br />By our fond summer sympathies ensnared; <br />Nor from the perfect circle of the year <br />Can even winter's crystal gems be spared.<br /><br />Christopher Pearse Cranch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/december-34/
