In its coffin in the clay, So White Winter, that rough nurse, Rocks the death-cold year to-day; Solemn hours! wail aloud For your mother in her shroud.
As the wild air stirs and sways The tree-swung cradle of a child, So the breath of these rude days Rocks the year:-be calm and mild; Trembling hours, she will arise With new love within her eyes.
January grey is here, Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, March with grief doth howl and rave.
And April weeps-but O, ye hours, Follow with May's fairest flowers.
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