"The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying; And the year; On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array; Follow the bier; Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre."
Percy Bysshe Shelley
*Zazzle Store*