No days such honored days as these! While yet
Helen Hunt Jackson
O Winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire,
Some flowers are withered and some joys have died;
O month whose promise and fulfilment blend,
Month which the warring ancients strangely styled
O Month when they who love must love and wed!
This is the treacherous month when autumn days
I dreamed that I ws dead and crossed the heavens,--
My body, eh? Friend Death, how now?
What freeman knoweth freedom? Never he
The Fir-Tree looked on stars, but loved the Brook!