While the zephyr sings in grief,
O’er each shrivelled stem and leaf.
’Tis the dreary time of snow,
Falling chill on all below,
As a winding-sheet it weaves
O’er the graves of myriad leaves.
Winter is a time of tears,
For the poor, in youth or years,—
Where the storm drives keenly in,
And the blanket’s brief and thin.