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 night 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 grey

Let your light sisters play –

Ye, follow the bier

Of the dead, cold year,

And make her grave green with tear upon tear.