II

The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,

The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling

For the Year;

The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone

To his dwelling.

Come, Months, come away;

Put on white, black and gray;

Let your light sisters play—

Ye, follow the bier

Of the dead cold Year,

And make her grave green with tear on tear.