The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying
And the Year
On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead
Is lying
Come, Months, come away
From November to May
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead cold Year
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre

The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling
For the Year;
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
To his dwelling;
Come, Months, come away;
Put on white, black, and gray;
Let your light sisters play—
Ye, follow the bier
Of the dead cold Year
And make her grave green with tear on tear