o last of autumn and winter—steeped in haze,

o sleepy seasons! you i love and praise,

because around my heart and brain you twine

a misty winding-sheet and a nebulous shrine.

on that great plain, where frigid blasts abound,

where through the nights, so long, the vane whirls round,

my soul, more free than in the springtime soft,

will stretch her raven wings and soar aloft,

unto an heart with gloomy things replete,

on which remain the frosts of former times,

o pallid seasons, mistress of our climes

as your pale shadows—nothing is so sweet,

unless it be, on a moonless night a-twain,

on some chance couch to soothe to sleep our pain.