The grey clouds hide the sun now
And the leaves flow down with the rain:
The golden days are done now
And Winter looms again.
‘ Tis bed-time for the seeds now
For the earth is weary of green:
She'll hide the very weeds now
Till nothing gay be seen.
Yet wait! it is not death now
That strips the meadow and grove:
The rose but holds her breath now
In the garden that we love:
‘ Tis sleep — the earth must rest now.
O Winter's a wondrous thing!
For she hides within her breast now
The jocund heart of Spring.