December 21 by Amos Russell Wells

Now let the weather do its worst,
With frost and sleet and blowing,
Rage like a beldam wild and curst,
And have its fill of snowing.
Now let the ice in savage vise
Grip meadow, brook, and branches,
Down from the north pour winter forth
In roaring avalanches.

I turn my collar to the blast
And greet the storm with laughter:
Your day, old Winter! use it fast,
For Spring is coming after.
The world may wear a frigid air,
But ah! its heart is burning;
Soon, soon will May dance down this way:
The year is at the turning.

There’s not a sabre-charge of cold
But brings the blossoms nearer;
By every frost-flower we shall hold
The violets the dearer.
So rage and blow the drifting snow
And have your fill of sorrow:
The turning years bring smiles for tears;
We’ll greet the spring to-morrow!