Melancholy Days

The melancholy days have come,

     The bluest of the year;

There is an unmistakable

     Chill in the atmosphere.

And way down in the cellar deep

     Which should be winter’s goal,

There is an awful aching void

     But not a pound of coal.

At my uncles down the street,

     Beneath the three-ball sign,

There is a pair of fur-lined gloves,

     And overcoat of mine.

It was a very easy stunt

     To hang them up, no doubt,

But it is quite another thing

     To go and get them out.

The melancholy days have come

     The time to feel forlorn;

We sit and wonder where our last

     Summer’s wages have gone.

It is the full time of the year

     The harvest time, and scene,

When other things are full, but when

     The pocketbook is lean.

Sept. 26, ‘10

                                                 

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