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December Poems

Table of Contents

  1. Fragment 3: Come, come thou bleak December wind by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
  2. December by Rebecca Hey
  3. December by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
  4. On December 21 by Anonymous
  5. An Interview by John B. Tabb
  6. December by Thomas Wentworth Higginson

  1. Fragment 3: Come, come thou bleak December wind

    by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

    Come, come thou bleak December wind,
    And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
    Flash, like a Love-thought, thro' me, Death
    And take a Life that wearies me.

  2. December

    by Rebecca Hey

    As human life begins and ends with woe,
    So doth the year with darkness and with storm.
    Mute is each sound, and vanish'd each fair form
    That wont to cheer us; yet a sacred glow—
    A moral beauty,—to which Autumn's show,
    Or Spring's sweet blandishments, or Summer's bloom,
    Are but vain pageants,—mitigate the gloom,
    What time December's angry tempests blow.
    'Twas when the "Earth had doff'd her gaudy trim,
    As if in awe," that she received her Lord;
    And angels jubilant attuned the hymn
    Which the church echoes still in sweet accord,
    And ever shall, while Time his course doth fill,
    'Glory to God on high! on earth, peace and good will!'

  3. December

    by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

    Only the sea intoning,
    Only the wainscot-mouse,
    Only the wild wind moaning
    Over the lonely house.

    Darkest of all Decembers
    Ever my life has known,
    Sitting here by the embers,
    Stunned and helpless, alone—

    Dreaming of two graves lying
    Out in the damp and chill:
    One where the buzzard, flying,
    Pauses at Malvern Hill;

    The other—alas! the pillows
    Of that uneasy bed
    Rise and fall with the billows
    Over our sailor's head.

    Theirs the heroic story —
    Died, by frigate and town!
    Theirs the Calm and the Glory,
    Theirs the Cross and the Crown.

    Mine to linger and languish
    Here by the wintry sea.
    Ah, faint heart! in thy anguish,
    What is there left to thee?

    Only the sea intoning,
    Only the wainscot-mouse,
    Only the wild wind moaning
    Over the lonely house.

  4. On December 21

    by Anonymous

    Now let the weather do its worst,
    With frost and sleet and blowing,
    Rage like a beldam wild and curst,
    And have its fill of snowing.
    Now let the ice in savage vise
    Grip meadow, brook, and branches,
    Down from the north pour winter forth
    In roaring avalanches.

    I turn my collar to the blast
    And greet the storm with laughter:
    Your day, old Winter! use it fast,
    For Spring is coming after.
    The world may wear a frigid air,
    But ah! its heart is burning;
    Soon, soon will May dance down this way:
    The year is at the turning.

    There's not a sabre-charge of cold
    But brings the blossoms nearer;
    By every frost-flower we shall hold
    The violets the dearer.
    So rage and hlow the drifting snow
    And have your fill of sorrow:
    The turning years bring smiles for tears;
    We'll greet the spring to-morrow!

  5. An Interview

    by John B. Tabb

    I sat with chill December
    Beside the evening fire.
    "And what do you remember,"
    I ventured to inquire,
    "Of seasons long forsaken?"
    He answered in amaze,
    "My age you have mistaken;
    I've lived but thirty days."

  6. December

    by Thomas Wentworth Higginson

    The evening sky unseals its quiet fountain,
    Hushing the silence to a drowsy rain;
    It spreads a web of dimness o'er the plain
    And round each meadow tree;
    Makes this steep river-bank a dizzy mountain,
    And this wide stream a sea.

    Stealing from upper headlands of deep mist,
    The dark tide bears its icebergs ocean bound,
    White shapeless voyagers, by each other kissed,
    With rustling, ghostly sound;
    The lingering oak-leaves sigh, the birches shiver,
    Watching the wrecks of summer far and near,
    Where many a dew-drop, frozen on its bier,
    Drifts down the dusky river.

    I know thee not, thou giant elm, who towerest
    With shadowy branches in the murky air;
    And this familiar grove, once light and fair,
    Frowns, an Enchanted Forest.
    Couldst thou not choose some other night to moan,
    O hollow-hooting owl?
    There needs no spell from thy bewildered soul;
    I'm ghost enough alone.