II.

Every grove was expecting Its leaf shed in gloom; The sap it is draining, Down rootwards 'tis straining, And the bark it is waning As dry as the tomb, And the blackbird at morning Is shrieking his doom.

Ceases thriving, the knotted, The stunted birk-shaw;[90] While the rough wind is blowing, And the drift of the snowing Is shaking, o'erthrowing, The copse on the law.

'Tis the season when nature Is all in the sere, When her snow-showers are hailing, Her rain-sleet assailing, Her mountain winds wailing, Her rime-frosts severe.