In cold December fragrant chaplets blow,
	And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.

Pope.    

	In a drear-nighted December,
	Too happy, happy brook,
	Thy bubblings ne’er remember
	Apollo’s summer look;
	But with a sweet forgetting,
	They stay their crystal fretting,
	Never, never petting
	About the frozen time.

Keats.    

	December drops no weak, relenting tear,
	By our fond Summer sympathies ensnared,
	Nor from the perfect circle of the year
	Can even Winter’s crystal gems bespared.

C. P. Cranch.    

	In December ring
	Every day the chimes;
	Loud the gleemen sing
	In the streets their merry rhymes.
	Let us by the fire
	Ever higher
	Sing them till the night expire!

Longfellow.    

	Shout now! The months with loud acclaim,
	Take up the cry and send it forth;
	May breathing sweet her Spring perfumes,
	November thundering from the North.
	With hands upraised, as with one voice,
	They join their notes in grand accord;
	Hail to December! say they all,
	It gave to Earth our Christ the Lord!

J. K. Hoyt.