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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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The sad and solemn night hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires; The glorious host of light walk the dark hemisphere till she retires; All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.
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The stormy March has come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies.
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And wrath has left its scar -- that fire of hell Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.
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