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Far down the somber-tinted North,
Where Argol leads his train of suns,
Gray Winter's herald issues forth
And casts his mantle as he runs.


So speeds he in his icy mail;
His breath falls down in glitt'ring frost,
And like the sea-spray on the gale
His hoary, unbound locks are tossed.


He smites the rivers and the lakes;
His path is over plain and hill;
The night is past, and morning breaks
Upon the mountains, gray and chill.


O Summer, with your violet eyes!
O golden Autumn, many-sheaved!
Our griefs are voiced in sobs and sighs,
Like little children oft-bereaved.


O winds, perfumed with Summer flowers!
O fields, in Summer's emerald sheen!
O summer birds, and Summer bowers,
O Summer days and nights serene!