His coming.

Before the driving blast

The mountain oak bows down his hoary head,

And flings his withered locks to the rough gales

That fiercely roar among his branches bare,

Uplifted to the dark, unpitying heavens.

The skies have put their mourning garments on,

And hung their funeral drapery on the clouds.

Dead Nature soon will wear her shroud of snow

And lie entombed in Winter’s icy grave.