No summer, though the days be shortening;
No autumn-promise from the fields and trees;
With sad face turned towards Christmas, that foresees
Huge bills for fuel, (and yet for fires doth pine;)
Rheumatics, pleurisy, and lung-disease,
Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine.
The burden of umbrellas. In thy sight
Dawn’s gray or vesper’s red may promise much,
Yet shalt thou never venture day nor night
Without that ‘little shadow’ in thy clutch.