As by my crackling fire I sit, and taste the spark, exhale the flame,
The tapestry of fond times departed,an unravelled past which has never changed,
And on the hearth ash comes to rest, its overcoat a fervent soot,
Which creeps along the marble niche and falls asleep at the fire's foot,
Winter tumbles, falling snow that from the heaven's bough is wept,
A drapery of imperial beauty, aroused from where the Angels slept,
Pale December, silent dark and a chilling rush of Northern air,
That swept the first flake off his feet and sprayed a flurry everywhere,
The hands of time dragged their fingers clung to the Autumn of yesteryear,
For now is the futurity, believe that a moment spent is a lifetime spared.
Stare into the flame again, respire his dazzled grace and pray,
For the scarcity of Pale December as the wearsome wood withers and decays.
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