Succeeds the keen and frosty night,—
Thou comest not when violets lean
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple drest,
Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com’st alone,
When woods are bare, and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near its end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye