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 wande.ing on by wood and wold ; 

 The air is damp, the winds are cold ; 



And summer-paths are wet and weary. 



