Shelley. 
ARPHAN hours, the year is dead, 
^ Come and sigh, come and weep I 
Merry hours, smile instead, 
For the year is but asleep. 
See, it smiles as it is sleeping, 
Mocking your untimely weeping. 
As an earthquake rocks a corse 
In its coffin in the clay, 
So white Winter, that rough nurse, 
Rocks the dead cold year to-day; 
Solemn hours! wail aloud 
For your mother in her shroud. 
As the wild air stirs and sways 
The tree-swung cradle of a child, 
So the breath of these rude days 
Rocks the year:—be calm and mild, 
Trembling hours ; she will arise 
With new love within her eyes. 
