Child of the grand old winter,
December floateth by;
And the ground without is bare and white
As the moon in the cloudless sky.

December by Harvey Carson Grumbine

High like skeletons grim
The trees hold up their arms;
The last leaf’s hurried from its limb
By the tempest’s wild alarms;
The river ripples gray and cold,
And autumn’s o’er like a story told.