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The Beginning Of Winter.
By W. M. MacKeracher
Now are the trees all ruefully bereft
Of their brave liveries of green and gold,
No shred of all their pleasant raiment left
To shield them from the wind and nipping cold.
Now is the grass all withered up and dead,
And shrouded in its cerement of the snow;
Now the enfeebled Sun goes soon to bed,
And rises late and carries his head low.
Now is the night magnificent to view
When the Queen Moon appears with cloudless brow;
Now are our spirits cleans'd and born anew
In the clear, quickening atmosphere; and now
We re-make home, and find our hearts' desire
In common talk before the cheerful fire.
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