To Dorothea.Dear little maid with laughing eyes,Wistful, wilful, winsome, wise,Fain would I lightly poetiseIn stanzas cheery;But days are short and nights are long,And shrill winds pipe a restless song,Complaining of the wide world's wrongIn accents dreary.Ah! welladay! the mist and rainDrive rudely over hill and plain;December hurries up amainWith drum and tabor;And blown to left and blown to right,Scared birds that cannot keep their flightDrop, baffled and outwearied quiteBy battling labour.We cannot speed the blust'ring hours,Or quell the angry Winter's powers,Or bring the sunshine and the flowersWe love so dearly;But we can sing and we can play,And we can make the dullest dayAs merry as the lark in MayThat carolls clearly.
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