Archibald Lampman - The Coming of Winter lyrics

Out of the Northland sombre weirds are calling; A shadow falleth southward day by day; Sad summers arms grow cold; his fire is falling; His feet draw back to give the stern one way. It is the voice and shadow of the slayer, Slayer of loves, sweet world, slayer of dreams; Make sad thy voice with sombre plaint and prayer; Make gray thy woods, and darken all they streams. Black grows the river, blacker drifts the eddy: The sky is grey; the woods are cold below: Oh make the bosom, and thy sad lips ready, For the cold kisses of the folding snow.