Classic Poem

Winter cold is coming on;
No more calls the cuckoo:
No more doth the music gush
From the silver-throated thrush:
No more now at " evening pale, "
Singeth sad the nightingale;
Nor the blackbird on the lawn;
Nor the lark at dewy dawn:
Time hath wove' his songs anew.
No more young and dancing measures;
No more budding flowery pleasures:
All is over, — all forgot;
Save by me, who loved them not.

Winter white is coming on;
And I love his coming:
What, though winds the fields have shorn, —
What, though earth is half forlorn, —
Not a berry on the thorn, —
Not an insect humming;
Pleasure never can be dead;
Beauty cannot hide her head!
Look! in what fantastic showers,
The snow flings down her feathered flowers,
Or whirls about, in drunken glee,
Kissing its love, the holly tree,
Behold! the Sun himself comes forth,
And sends his beams from south to north, —
To diamonds turns the winter rime,
And lends a glory to the time!
Such days, — when old friends meet together,
Are worth a score of mere spring weather;
And hark! — the merry bells awake;
They clamour blithely for our sake!
The clock is sounding from the tower,
" Four " — " five " — 'tis now — 's dinner-hour!
Come on, — I see his table spread, —
The sherry, — the claret rosy red,
The champagne sparkling in the light, —
By Bacchus! we 'll be wise to-night!