A sparkling coldness in the morning air

Proclaims the death of summer; without fear,

I greet this herald of the dying year,

Whose icy breath cries; “Winter comes! Prepare!”

Let winter come; for though the wold be bare,

My corn is garnered: now the leaves are sere,

Each orchard-twig droops with its russet tear,

And I greet the winter with a harvest prayer.

The restless hopes of spring have dropped away

In fruitful generation, and desire

Died with the virgin petals’ snowy fall,

But many a fruitful hour and glorious day

Close soul to soul, beside the evening fire

We celebrate the harvest festival.