Make all the garden doubly cold,
And with a chill and shivering pain
I hear the fall of sleety rain.
The music that, in beamy May,
Told of an endless holyday,
With surly Winter’s wailings blent,
Becomes his dreariest instrument.
The water’s blithe and sparkling voice,
That all the Summer said, “rejoice!”
Now pours upon the bitter air