THE COMING OF WINTER.

Out of the Northland sombre weirds are calling;

A shadow falleth southward day by day;

Sad summer's arms grow cold; his fire is falling;

His feet draw back to give the stern one way.

It is the voice and shadow of the slayer,

Slayer of loves, sweet world, slayer of dreams;

Make sad thy voice with sober plaint and prayer;

Make gray thy woods, and darken all thy streams.

Black grows the river, blacker drifts the eddy:

The sky is grey; the woods are cold below:

Oh make thy bosom, and thy sad lips ready,

For the cold kisses of the folding snow.