In the jolly winters
    Of the long-ago,
  It was not so cold as now—­
    O!  No!  No! 
  Then, as I remember,
    Snowballs, to eat,
  Were as good as apples now,
    And every bit as sweet!

II.

  In the jolly winters
    Of the dead-and-gone,
  Bub was warm as summer,
    With his red mitts on,—­
  Just in his little waist-
    And-pants all together,
  Who ever heard him growl
    About cold weather?

III.

  In the jolly winters of the long-ago—­
  Was it half so cold as now? 
    O!  No!  No! 
  Who caught his death o’ cold,
    Making prints of men
  Flat-backed in snow that now’s
    Twice as cold again?

IV.

  In the jolly winters
    Of the dead-and-gone,
  Startin’ out rabbit-hunting
    Early as the dawn,—­
  Who ever froze his fingers,
    Ears, heels, or toes,—­
  Or’d a cared if he had? 
    Nobody knows!

V.

  Nights by the kitchen-stove,
    Shelling white and red
  Corn in the skillet, and
    Sleepin’ four abed! 
  Ah! the jolly winters
    Of the long-ago! 
  We were not so old as now—­
    O!  No!  No!

THREE DEAD FRIENDS.

  Always suddenly they are gone—­
    The friends we trusted and held secure—­
  Suddenly we are gazing on,
    Not a smiling face, but the marble-pure
  Dead mask of a face that nevermore
    To a smile of ours will make reply—­
      The lips close-locked as the eyelids are—­
  Gone—­swift as the flash of the molten ore
    A meteor pours through a midnight sky,
      Leaving it blind of a single star.

  Tell us, O Death, Remorseless Might! 
    What is this old, unescapable ire
  You wreak on us?—­from the birth of light
    Till the world be charred to a core of fire! 
  We do no evil thing to you—­
    We seek to evade you—­that is all—­
      That is your will—­you will not be known
  Of men.  What, then, would you have us do?—­
    Cringe, and wait till your vengeance fall,
      And your graves be fed, and the trumpet blown?

  You desire no friends; but we—­O we
    Need them so, as we falter here,
  Fumbling through each new vacancy,
    As each is stricken that we hold dear. 
  One you struck but a year ago;
    And one not a month ago; and one—­
      (God’s vast pity!)—­and one lies now
  Where the widow wails, in her nameless woe,
    And the soldiers pace, with the sword and gun,
      Where the comrade sleeps, with the laureled brow.