Classic Poem

How dreary is winter to me,
Alone all its rigours I bear;
The hand that should shield me lies low;
I've none in my sorrows to share.

Ye trees that hang over my cot,
And tremble with each passing breeze,
The sport of the rude whistling winds,
Which bend your tall heads as they please:

For the ravage of winter you sigh,
And the loss of your verdure deplore,
But your lot's not so wretched as mine,
My winter will never be o'er.

Thou snowdrop so sickly and sad,
That droops when the sun is gone down;
Now languid and bending thy head,
Beneath the pale light of the moon.

Fair flow'ret! too early thy birth,
Too soon hast thou left thy warm bed,
The hoar-frost will nip thy sweet bud,
And soon will thy beauty be fled.

Like thee do I languish and fade,
But my state is more sad and forlorn;
And ah! hapless me, if I die,
My loss a sweet infant will mourn.