ith melancholy light, the moonbeams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred,
As by a mourner's sigh; and, on yon cloud,
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,
The spirits of the Seasons seem to stand.
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form,
And Winter with its aged locks--and breathe
In mournful cadences, that come abroad,
Like the far windharps wild, touching wail,
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year,
Gone from the earth forever.
'Tis a time
For memory and for tears. Within the deep,
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim,
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of time,
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful
And holy v
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