Like plundered hearts, unkerneled of sweet cheer—
Lie black and bare, exposed to rudest tread:
While still, with semblance of the Summer brave,
Soft, pitying airs float o'er its cold death-bed;
Bright flowers and motley leaves flaunt o'er its grave:
As in Earth's Autumn—so, through weeping showers,
Love sighs a mournful requiem over bygone hours.
WINTER.
Locked in a close embrace, like that of Death,