A deary month of weeping, of cloud and fog and rain, is sorrowful December, and all the wind complain.
For trees are bare and flowers are gone, and birds have hushed all song, and days are short and sunless, and nights are dark and long.
But let us wait in patience, the days are swift to go.
Sorrow does not stay long on the earth below; some days must be for weeping, but God and heaven remain and after nights of darkness the sun will shine again.
By Streams In The Desert