The lakes of ice gleam bluer than the lakes

Of water 'neath the summer sunshine gleamed;

Far fairer than when placidly it streamed,

The brook its frozen architecture makes,

And under bridges white its swift way takes.

Snow comes and goes as messenger who dreamed

Might linger on the road; or one who deemed

His message hostile, gently, for their sakes

Who listened, might reveal it by degrees.

We gird against the cold of winter wind

Our loins now with mighty bands of sleep,

In longest, darkest nights take rest and ease,

And every shortening day, as shadows creep

O'er the brief noontide, fresh surprises find.

Best of all, old King December,

Laughs beside the burning ember,

With his children round his knees,

And a look of jovial ease.

He is crowned Lord of Misrule—

Here's his Queen, and there's his fool.

He is wreathed with frosty green,

And ever the gay song between

"Wassail!" shouts he, "health to all!"

And re-echoes the old hall.—