Now, while the rear-guard of the flying year, Rugged December on the season's verge Marshals his pale days to the mournful dirge Of muffled winds in far-off forests drear, Good friend! turn with me to our in-door cheer; Draw night; the huge flames roar upon the hearth, And this sly sparkler is of subtlest birth, And a rich vintage, poet souls hold dear; Mark how the sweet rogue wooes us! Sit thee down, And we will quaff, and quaff, and drink our fill, Topping the spirits with a Bacchanal crown, Till the funereal blast shall wail no more, But silver-throated clarions seem to thrill, And shouts of triumph peal along the shore. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MACFLECKNOE; OR, A SATIRE UPON THE TRUE-BLUE-PROTESTANT POET by JOHN DRYDEN SONNET: 18 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE BISHOP BRUNO by ROBERT SOUTHEY THE INCHCAPE ROCK by ROBERT SOUTHEY BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE by WALT WHITMAN JOHN CHARLES FREMONT by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER DISCIPLINE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH WHY PLAGUE ME, LOVES? by ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS CLIO, NINE ECLOGUES IN HONOUR OF NINE VIRTUES: 2. OF GRATITUDE by WILLIAM BASSE |