Over the meadows and brakes,
From brazen throats of the pealing bells
When Christmas morning wakes.
YEARS THAT ARE TO BE.
Wild years that are to be
The sad completion of my weary life,
In ghostly mantles of despairing strife
Your phanton dimness darkly shadows me!
Gaunt demons dancing from your horrid halls
Entwine my soul in gloomy arms of woe,