December by Adeline Treadwell [Parsons] Lunt

It likes me well—December's breath,
Although its kiss be cold,
Nor yet the year is sealed in death,
'Tis only growing old.

Nor yet the brooks have ceased to run,
The rivers freely flow,
And over flowerless fields the sun
Still wreathes a roseate glow.

Soft colors lie on meadow lands,
In many a motley hue,
And o'er the wild white waste of sands,
Just now flocked pigeons flew!

And on the cliffs' cold crested height
The goats, they gambol free,
And swiftly comes a sudden flight
Of swallows o'er the sea.

Apostle-like, the fishermen
Are mending sail and net,
Whose voices ever and again
To some strange song are set.

In stranded boats the children creep
To wait the coming tide,
And watch the foaming breakers leap
Upon the meadow's side.

The year is dying, ay, is dead,
But yet December's breath
A glory and a glow can shed
Irradiating death.