Wayfarer

The withered hand of winter offers
coins of coldness for the coffers;
beneath the howling wolfish sky,
comes a striding stranger, I.
The winds bestir the dying leaves,
the crows disperse, the hedgerow heaves,
the air is filled with discontent,
changeful, fretting, spectre-sent.
Travailing against the ether-weight,
I stride along, and contemplate,
passing dormant fountain-heads,
and mirthless shriveled flowerbeds,
grimly noting their demise
with sympathetic weary eyes;
but beyond these gardens, oh!
many leagues are left to go,
and wolves are howling in the sky,
as the stranger passes by.