THE year has changed his mantle¹ cold Of wind, of rain, of bitter² air； And he goes clad in cloth of gold, Of laughing suns and season fair； No bird or beast of wood or wold But doth with cry or song declare The year lays down his mantle cold. All founts, all rivers, seaward rolled, The pleasant summer livery wear, With silver studs on broidered vair； The world puts off its raiment old, The year lays down his mantle cold.