Henry Raymond Howland (1844–1930)

WITH Autumn’s latest breath there came a chill

Of brooding sadness, as o’er pleasures dead;

And through the sunless day, with silent tread,

There seemed to pass, o’er vale and wooded hill,

The footsteps of some messenger of ill.

Through forest ways with rustling leaves o’erspread,

The pine boughs whispered low of bodings dread,

And all the air a mystery seemed to fill.

But in the shadows of enfolding night,

From out the bosom of the frosty air,

Fell a baptismal robe of beauty rare;

And when, at kiss of dawn, awoke the earth,

Each leaf and pine bough, clad in vesture white,

Told of the peaceful hour of Winter’s birth.