LAYS OF THE SEASONS. 



BY MARY HOWITT. 



IV. 

 WINTER. 



THERE'S not a flower upon the hill, 

 There's not a leaf upon the tree ; 

 The summer bird hath left its bough, 

 Bright child of sunshine, singing now 

 In spicy lands beyond the sea. 



There's silence in the harvest-field ; 



And blackness in the mountain-glen, 

 And cloud that will not pass away 

 From the hill-tops for many a day ; 



And stillness round the homes of men. 



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. 



