THE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the year On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come, months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array; Follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling; Come, months, come away, Put on white, black, and gray; Let your light sisters play -- Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LOVER MOURNS FOR THE LOSS OF LOVE by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS THE VIRGIN MARY TO THE CHILD JESUS by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING JOHN BARLEYCORN by ROBERT BURNS THE FIRE OF DRIFTWOOD; DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW PALINODE; AUTUMN by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL SONNET TO THE HUNGARIAN NATION by MATTHEW ARNOLD BLOUDIE JACKE OF SHREWSBERRIE; THE SHROPSHIRE BLUEBEARD by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM |