December

The year is tired—weight of days Seems long, and hours lost in ways That grieve its spirit, nor allays The secret dread.

Waiting now while chill winds blow, Glad to rest, beneath the snow Called to hush the days that go To well earn'd rest.

At the young year's feet you cast Wisdom gained—is danger past? Surely we may hope at last For days more fair?

Rest then, weary burden'd year We have shared your every fear And yet feel the goal is near— The die is cast!