Winter has come in sackcloth and ashes
( Penance for Summer's enverdured sheaves ).
Bitterly, cruelly, bleakly he lashes
His limbs that are naked of grass and leaves.
He moans in the forest for sins unforgiven
( Sins of the revelous days of June ) —
Moans while the sun drifts dull from the heaven,
Giftless of heat's beshriving boon.
Long must he mourn, and long be his scourging,
( Long will the day-god aloof frown cold ),
Long will earth listen the rue of his dirging —
Till the dark beads of his days are told.