A poem by George W. Doneghy


White-shrouded, latest-born of all the year,
In thy cold hands no bud or floweret bearing,
Thou comest now to wail above the bier
Of thy dead sisters--on thy bosom wearing
The icy jewel and the frosted gem--
But on thy marble brow the Star of Bethlehem!


Beneath thy foot-prints lie the Autumn leaves,
Mould'ring and hast'ning to decay;
And where the drifting snow its mantle weaves
The Summer songsters sang the happy hours away.
What tho' the birds have flown the blighted stem?
There's in thy jeweled crown the Star of Bethlehem!

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'December.' by George W. Doneghy

comments powered by Disqus