DECEMBER. 



The old tree hath an older look ; 



The lonesome place is yet more dreary ; 

 They go not now, the young and old, 

 Slow wandering on by wood and wold ; 

 The air is damp, the winds are cold ; 



And summer-paths are wet and weary. 



The drooping year is in the wane, 

 No longer floats the thistle down ; 



The crimson heath is wan and sere ; 



The sedge hangs withering by the mere, 

 And the broad fern is rent and brown. 



The owl sits huddling by himself, 



The cold has pierced his body thorough ; 



The patient cattle hang their head ; 



The deer are 'neath their winter-shed ; 



The ruddy squirrel 's in his bed, 



And each small thing within its burrow. 



In rich men's halls the fire is piled, 



And ermine robes keep out the weather ; 

 In poor men's huts the fire is low, 

 Through broken panes the keen winds blow, 

 And old and young are cold together. 



