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If cold December gave you birth, The month of snow and ice and mirth, Place on you hand a Turquoise blue, Success will bless whate'er you do.

Only the sea intoning, Only the wainscot-mouse, Only the wild wind moaning Over the lonely house.

Wild was the day; the wintry sea Moaned sadly on New England's strand, When first the thoughtful and the free, Our fathers, trod the desert land.

December drops no weak, relenting tear, By our fond Summer sympathies ensnared, Nor from the perfect circle of the year Can even Winter's crystal gems be spared.

Shout now! The months with loud acclaim, Take up the cry and send it forth; May breathing sweet her Spring perfumes, November thundering from the North. With hands upraised, as with one voice, They join their notes in grand accord; Hail to December! say they all, It gave to Earth our Christ the Lord!

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.

In cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.

When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how In this our pinching cave shall we discourse The freezing hours away?

The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon.