Classic Poem

OLD December!
 Art thou gone?—then fare thee well!
Many a good do I remember
 Of thee, that I fain would tell;
Many a dream beyond all trouble;
Many a feast where beer did bubble;
Many a jolly beauty toasted;
Many a mighty turkey roasted;
Laughing, quaffing, blusterous weather,
(Winds and rain, a song together);
Friendship glowing,—wine a-flowing,
Wit, beyond the proser's knowing!
Ah, December!
I remember
Thee and thine, perhaps too well.
Let the trim tea-totaller talk
Of his May and April walk,
All amongst the insipid flowers,
Dawdling with the vacant Hours;
I —amidst the blazing night,
Have seen vast and deep delight,—
Pleasure, such as left its traces
On a thousand brightening faces,—
Brightening at the touch of Truth,
(Like Age remembering its own youth);
For, be sure ,—that noble Wine
Is Truth!—and, doubly thus, divine.

Wine!—It opes the heart's red sluices,
Letting forth those generous juices,
Which so fertilize our clay,
That the Night transcends the Day:
Virtues then spring up like flowers;
Joy comes gladdening all the hours;
Justice takes an aspect bland;
Friendship puts forth its kind hand:
Every thing both great and good
Is then confess'd, and understood:
No more fear beside the flask;
No dull spite in wisdom's mask:
No mean, simmering, simpering blushes:—
The great Soul all-radiant rushes
Forth, at once, on the social ground,
And laugheth as the glass runs round.

For these reasons, old December!
 (For these reasons, and some more
Which I do not now remember),
 I'll still love thee, as of yore.

When I knew no woes nor pains,
And the blood ran racing through my veins,
Stinging every nerve with pleasure,
I could tread the merriest measure,
Dancing till I met the Day;
And could drain my cup alway;
And could whisper—soft and low—
Under the mystic mistletoe.
So it was;—and so, old friend,
When this year shall near its end,
If gray Age and Fate permit,
I will face thee in thy wit—
In thy wit and wine array'd.
What care I how many a maid
Laugheth in thy frosty train;
I will dare their worst, again.
Let who will forsake the wine,
At my right-hand it shall shine
Like a blessing,—as, in truth.
'Tis to age as well as youth.

Now, farewell! and for my sake,
 Bid thy fellow Months be kind,
And not a merry Spirit take,
 Nor one of true or gentle mind.
In requitat,—Friends, remember!
 We will all assemble round,
 When next the winter strews the ground,
And drink a health to old December!