Winter gives us warning:
The grass is grey below,
'Tis the first autumn morning,
And spiders' webs show.

The hollyhock that towers
Hangs heavy by the head,
In the cups of the flowers
Cold bees lie dead.

The tree-tops are thinning
Where the fruit stays thick,
And yellow leaves are spinning
To the dead from the quick.

'Tis the old trouble:
Southward goes the sun;
Here, in dust and rubble,
Summer's fires are done.

But among the embers
Rake, and we shall find
Something of December's
Nearer to the mind.

Dearer to desire
Shall the long nights be:
Light the winter fire;
Come, and sit with me!