December, A Fragment Poem by Robert Anderson

On the banks of the river no wild flow'rs are springing
All bare is the meadow, and naked the wood;
On the spray not a minstrel at eve is heard singing,
And silence now reigns, save the sound of the flood:
But dearer art thou, in thy wild robes, December,
Than Spring deck'd in flow'rs, or gay Summer to me;
These tell but of joys that too well I remember,
But Winter's approach points to what I must be!

Obscur'd by dark clouds, Sol no longer is cheering,
And wild o'er the mountains the northern winds blow;
The mist on the hills the whole day is appearing,
And languishing nature is half--hid with snow:
Yet dearer art thou, &c.

Where, where are the friendships I shar'd in life's morning,
When hope whisper'd oft, they would never decay?
Alas! ne'er again can I hope their returning;
Like dreams of the night, they have faded away!
Thus, dearer art thou, &c.

The bright orb of day wakes me no more to gladness;
Life's once--pleasing cup is now drain'd of its joy;
I rise but to weep, and recline but in sadness,
While thoughts of the past ever force a deep sigh:
Then dearer art thou, &c.

Few pleasures from light--footed mirth can we borrow,
Save such as still sober reflection must scorn;
By hope long deserted, the mind sunk in sorrow,
Regardless of pleasure, courts not her return:
And dearer art thou, in thy wild robes, December,
Than Spring deck'd in flow'rs, or gay Summer to me;
These tell but of joys that too well I remember,
But Winter's approach points to what I must be!