THE BAD YEAR

MAY, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to June
No blooms, but many a stalk with drooping leaves,
And arid Summer wilted these full soon,
And Autumn gathered up no wealthy sheaves;
Plaintive October saddened for the year,

But wild November raged that hope was past,
Shrieking, “All days of life are made how drear—
Wild whirls of snow! and Death comes driving fast.”
Yet sane December when the winds fell low,
And cold calm light with sunshine tinkled clear,

Harkened to bells more sweet than long ago,
And meditated in a mind sincere:—

“Beneath these snows shining from yon red west
     How sleep the blooms of some delighted May,
And June shall riot, lovely as the best

     That flung their odors forth on all their way;
     Yes, violet Spring, the balms of her soft breath,
Her birdlike voice, the child-joy in her air,

     Her gentle colors”—sane December saith
“They come, they come—O heart, sigh not ‘They were.’”