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Far away, on hilly slopes
Glow a copper dun.
For the year that's on the wane,
Gathering all its fire,
Flares up through the kindling world
As, ere they expire,
Flames leap high and higher.
Mathilde Blind [1841-1896]
YEA, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves,
With slow, reluctant feet, and weary eyes,
The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams;
Only I knew her for the yearly slain,
And wept, and weep until she come again.
Frederic Manning [18
HAIL, old October, bright and chill,
Come, friend, my fire is burning bright,
How clear it glows! (there's frost to-night,)
You've been to "Richard." Ah! you've seen
Be mine the tree that feeds the fire!
The sentry sun, that glared so long
Shine on the kangaroo, thou sun!
Thomas Constable [1812-1881]
WHEN thistle-blows do lightly float
About the pasture-height,
And shrills the hawk a parting note,
And creeps the frost at night,
Then hilly ho! though singing so,
And whistle as I may,
There comes again the old heart pain
Through all the livelong day.
In high wind creaks the leafless tree
The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be,
And cold the sun does burn.
Then ho, hollo! though calling so,
The tears arise unto my eyes,
And thoughts are chill and brown.
Far in the cedars' dusky stoles,
And hip, hip, ho! though cheering so,
It stills no whit the pain;
For drip, drip, drip, from bare branch-tip,
I hear the year's last rain.
So drive the cold cows from the hill,
And call the wet sheep in;
And let their stamping clatter fill
The barn with warming din.
And ho, folk, ho! though it be so
That we no more may roam,
We still will find a cheerful mind
THE day had been a calm and sunny day,
The hoar-frost glittered on the naked heath,
The morning came, the dreary morn, at last,
And showed the whitened waste. The shivering herd Lowed on the hoary meadow-ground, and fast
Fell the light flakes upon the earth unstirred;
The forest firs with glittering snows o'erlaid
Stood like hoar priests in robes of white arrayed.
John Howard Bryant [1807-1902]
Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours;
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
Shall wait on honey love,
While youthful revels, masques, and Courtly sights,
Sleep's leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
WINTER: A DIRGE
THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day.
"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," The joyless winter day,
Let others fear,-to me more dear
Than all the pride of May;
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest,-they must be best,
Because they are Thy will.
Then all I want (oh, do Thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign!
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
OLD Winter sad, in snow yclad,
Is making a doleful din;
But let him howl till he crack his jowl,
We will not let him in.
Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift
His hoary, haggard form,
And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand