'Tis late before the sun will rise,
And early he will go;
Gray fringes hang from the gray skies,
And wet the ground below.
Red fruit has followed golden corn;
The leaves are few and sere;
My thoughts are old as soon as born,
And chill with coming fear.
The winds lie sick; no softest breath
Floats through the branches bare;
- silence as of coming death Is growing in the air.
But what must fade can bear to fade--
Was born to meet the ill:
Creep on, old Winter, deathly shade!
We sorrow, and are still.