47. The desolate and dying year,
Yet lovely in its lifelessness,
As beauty stretch'd upon the bier,
In death's clay-cold and dark caress;
There's loveliness in its decay,
Which breathes, which lingers on it still.
J. G. Brooks.
48. Pale, rugged Winter, bending o'er his tread,
His grizzled hair bedropt with icy dew;
His eyes a dusky light, congeal'd and dead,