And braces the languid sinew;
So while we have voices and lungs to cheer,
And the winter frost before us,
Come chant to the king of the mortal year,
And thunder him out in chorus.
E. E. Bowen.
"Decay, decay," the wildering west winds cry;
"Decay, decay," the moaning woods reply;
The whole dead autumn landscape, drear and chill,