Classic Poem

The winds are whispering low their dirges drear,
Sobbing and sighing in a sad lament,
And all the clouds of heaven seem hither sent
To watch around the deathbed of the year.

All Nature softens as his end draws near,
The winds cling round him thick and heavy now, —
O'er burdened with the death-damps of his brow;
The drooping elms let fall the chilly tear.

The clouds draw closer round, and stoop to hear
His dying moans; their bosoms swell with rain,
As swells my troubled heart with tears and pain,
At the near loss of one to me so dear:
For, from the New Year, hastening here to reign,
I have thought much to hope yet more to fear.