The Changing Year

Red as my sweetheart's lips
Were the nodding heads of clover.
Deep as my true-love's eyes
The blue sky bending over.
All out of doors,
Both birds and men, were singing.
The year was springing,
And so was love.

The wintry sky is gray
As the ash of a dying ember.
The snow falls white today,
It is the chill November.
The breeze that sweeps
The orchard floors is sighing.
The year is dying,
But not my love!

Poem by William Byron Forbush