Dirge for the Year

As an earthquake rocks a corse

In its coffin in the clay,

So White Winter, that rough nurse,

Rocks the death-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.

January gray is here,

Like a sexton by her grave;

February bears the bier,

March with grief doth howl and rave,

And April weeps — but, O ye Hours!

Follow with May's fairest flowers.