December
ICICLES AT THE SOUTH
The rain on the trees has ceased to freeze;
(’Twas molded with quaint device)
The bent boughs lean, like cimeters keen,
In scabbards of shining ice.
’Neath frozen cloaks the pines and oaks
Are stooping like Druids old,—
And the cedars stand—an arctic band—
Held in the clutch of cold.
Through the outer gloom the japonicas bloom,
With the lustre of rubies bright—
Like blossoms blown from a tropic zone,—
A marvellous land of light!
William Hamilton Hayne
December First
THE FIRST SNOW-FALL
The Fir-tree felt it with a thrill
And murmur of content;
The last dead Leaf its cable slipt
And from its moorings went;
The selfsame silent messenger,
To one that shibboleth
Of Life imparting, and to one,
The countersign of Death.
John B. Tabb
December Second