Now silent and sad—and in slavery!
Oh winter! stern monarch—thy sway is begun—
And thou lovest to undo what the summer hath done.
The fairest, most cherished of blossoms and flowers,
The queen of the meadows—the princess of bowers
The lily and rose—these waken thy spite—
And they fly from thy presence, in terror and blight!
The leaves of the forest turn pale in thy blast—
From thy hail and thy frost the birds shrink aghast—
And the bright robe of green that was woven by May,