DECEMBER.
Hoar Time about the house betakes him slow,
Seeking an entry for his weariness;
And in that dreadful company, Distress
And the sad Night with silent footsteps go.
On my poor hearth the brands are scarce aglow,
And in the woods without pale wanderers press;
Where, waning in the pines from less to less,
Mysterious hangs the hornéd moon, and low.
For now December, full of aged care,