December
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He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes:
You may trace his footsteps now
On the naked woods and the blasted fields,
And the brown hill’s withered brow.
He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees,
Where their green came forth,
And the winds, which follow wherever he goes,
Have shaken them down to earth.
He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!
Let us meet him as we may,
And turn with the light of the parlor fire
His evil power away;
And gather closer the circle round,
Where the firelight dances high,
And laugh at the shriek of the baffled fiend,
As his sounding wing goes by.
—John G. Whittier.