Carol and Cadence :: :: University of Virginia Library

The winds are abroad in the hail-beaten hills;
The waters are loose in the land.
Hark, hark, to the sound of the rain-swollen rills!
November is here with its fogs and its chills;
The frost-giants wait on the storm-battered sills;
The winter, the winter's at hand.

The cold is upon us; the snows will soon fall.
See, buried already's the mole!
The woes of the Winter are over us all,
And who hath not youth and hot blood at his call
Were best roll himself, like the bear, in a ball
And suck his dry paws in his hole.

The sun reigns no more in the mist-darkened dome;
His rays are half-lost in the fog.
Thrice happy is he who no need hath to roam
Or hunt for bare life on the sands and the foam,
And blest who hath lover or comrade at home,
Be it only a cat or a dog!