Now, while the rear-guard of the flying year, Rugged December on the season's verge Marshals his pale days to the mournful dirge Of muffled winds in far-off forests drear, Good friend! turn with me to our in-door cheer; Draw night; the huge flames roar upon the hearth, And this sly sparkler is of subtlest birth, And a rich vintage, poet souls hold dear; Mark how the sweet rogue wooes us! Sit thee down, And we will quaff, and quaff, and drink our fill, Topping the spirits with a Bacchanal crown, Till the funereal blast shall wail no more, But silver-throated clarions seem to thrill, And shouts of triumph peal along the shore. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PRELUDE by JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE THE RUNNER WITH THE LOTS by LEONIE ADAMS A CHILD'S GRAVE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH FOUR SONNETS: 1 by FRANK DAVIS ASHBURN JAY A-PASS'D by WILLIAM BARNES THE TEAR by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |