Winter

No more the morn with tepid rays Unfolds the flower of various hue; Noon spreads no more the genial blaze, Nor gentle eve distills the dew. The lingering hours prolong the night, Usurping darkness shares the day; Her mists restrain the force of light, And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway. By gloomy twilight half revealed, With sighs we view the hoary hill, The leafless wood, the naked field, The snow-topp'd cot, the frozen rill. No music warbles through the grove, No vivid colours paint the plain; No more with devious steps I rove Through verdant paths, now sought in vain. Aloud the driving tempest roars; Congeal'd impetuous showers descend; Haste, close the window, bar the doors, Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend. In nature's aid let art supply With light and heat my little sphere; Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high; Light up a constellation here. Let music sound the voice of joy! Or mirth repeat the jocund tale; Let love his wanton wiles employ, And o'er the season wine prevail. Yet time life's dreary winter brings, When mirth's gay tale shall please no more; Nor music charm, though Stella sings; Nor love, nor wine the spring restore. Catch the, O! catch the transient hour, Improve each moment as it flies; Life's a short Summer - man a flower, He dies - alas! how soon he dies!