The soft lute is removed from the lady's lorn bower,
Lest it coldly be touched by the air.
Cold Winter is coming—all stript are the groves,
The passage-bird hastens away;
To the lovely blue South, like the tourist, he roves,
And returns like the sunshine in May.
Cold Winter is coming—he'll breathe on the stream—
And the bane of his petrific breath
Will seal up the waters; till, in the moon-beam.
They lie stirless, as slumber or death!