Or wearing the long, gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly’s green eternity.
IV.
The squirrel gloats on his accomplish’d hoard;
The ants have cramm’d their garners with ripe grain,
And honey-bees have stored
The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have winged across the main;
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells