JANUARY by WARREN CHENEY

WHEN garden plats are pinched and brown,
Because the sun itself is cold;
When streams are swollen, freighted down
With sodden drift and the red mold;
When plum trees, stripped of leafy gown,
Toward the salt mist lean branches sere;
Then hey, my heart, and ho, my heart,
The turning of the year.

When crows fly low and dusks are gray,
And mists lie fleecy on the hills;
When walks are bright at break of day,
And from the hedge a robin trills;
When leaf buds feel the rising play
Of spring's intoxicating brew,
Then hey, my heart, and ho, my heart,
The year begins anew.

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