I
"Dying of hunger and sorrow:
I die for my youth I fear!"
Murmured the midnight-haunting
Voice of the stricken Year.
There like a child it perished
In the stormy thoroughfare:
The snow with cruel whiteness
Had aged its flowing hair.
Ah, little Year so fruitful,
Ah, child that brought us bliss,
Must we so early lose you--
Our dear hopes end in this?