There’s a bitterness and sorrow in the Winter’s leaden air,

A chilling sort of something that’s akin to human care,

A tender gray of sadness, like a voice of bygone gladness,

In the ashen sombre atmosphere that lingers everywhere.

There are tear-drops on the eyelid, in the Winter’s leaden air,

A sympathetic chord is touched that finds expression there;

Reality seems clearer, and the end of all seems nearer,

In the sober, flinty ether, supernaturally bare.