Ramayana 3.103a

"The time is come, to thee more dear Than all the months that mark the year: The gracious seasons' joy and pride, By which the rest are glorified. A robe of hoary rime is spread O'er earth, with corn engarlanded. The streams we loved no longer please, But near the fire we take our ease. Now pious men to God and shade Offer young corn's fresh sprouted blade, And purge away their sins with rice Bestowed in humble sacrifice. Rich stores of milk delight the swain, And hearts are cheered that longed for gain, Proud kings whose breasts for conquests glow Lead bannered troops to smite the foe. Dark is the north: the Lord of Day To Yama's south(452) has turned away: And she--sad widow--shines no more, Reft of the bridal mark(453) she wore. Himalaya's hill, ordained of old The treasure-house of frost and cold, Scarce conscious of the feebler glow, Is truly now the Lord of Snow. Warmed by the noontide's genial rays Delightful are the glorious days: But how we shudder at the chill Of evening shadows and the rill! How weak the sun, how cold the breeze! How white the rime on grass and trees! The leaves are sere, the woods have lost Their blossoms killed by nipping frost. Neath open skies we sleep no more: December's nights with rime are hoar: Their triple watch(454) in length extends With hours the shortened daylight lends. No more the moon's sun-borrowed rays Are bright, involved in misty haze, As when upon the mirror's sheen The breath's obscuring cloud is seen. E'en at the full the faint beams fail To struggle through the darksome veil: Changed like her hue, they want the grace That parts not yet from Sita's face. Cold is the western wind, but how Its piercing chill is heightened now, Blowing at early morning twice As furious with its breath of ice! See how the dewy tears they weep The barley, wheat, and woodland steep, Where, as the sun goes up the sky, The curlew and the saras cry.