01.07.2007, 11:40
Now, while the Rear-Guard of the flying Year
Rugged December, on the season’s verge,
Marshals his pale Days to the mournful dirge
Of muffled winds in far-off forests drear,
Good friend! turn with me to our in-door cheer;
Draw nigh, the huge flames roar upon the hearth,
And this sly sparkler is of subtlest birth,
And a rich vintage poet souls hold dear;
Mark how the sweet rogue woos us! Sit thee down,
And we will quaff, and quaff, and drink our fill,
Topping the spirits with a Bacchanal crown,
Till the funeral blast shall wail no more,
But silver-throated clarions seem to thrill,
And shouts of triumph peal anong the shore.
Rugged December, on the season’s verge,
Marshals his pale Days to the mournful dirge
Of muffled winds in far-off forests drear,
Good friend! turn with me to our in-door cheer;
Draw nigh, the huge flames roar upon the hearth,
And this sly sparkler is of subtlest birth,
And a rich vintage poet souls hold dear;
Mark how the sweet rogue woos us! Sit thee down,
And we will quaff, and quaff, and drink our fill,
Topping the spirits with a Bacchanal crown,
Till the funeral blast shall wail no more,
But silver-throated clarions seem to thrill,
And shouts of triumph peal anong the shore.