The geese last night were chanting
As they flew high overhead:
Oh! So late . . . Oh! So late . . .
So late:
The frosts at last have glazed our lawns,
But brooks still gurgle, free of ice,
And winter coats still wear the dust
Their hangered exile has deposed.
January 1
As they flew high overhead:
Oh! So late . . . Oh! So late . . .
So late:
The frosts at last have glazed our lawns,
But brooks still gurgle, free of ice,
And winter coats still wear the dust
Their hangered exile has deposed.
