High Street in Early December

Don't fret for naked trees

Or coming chill.

December's austere mysteries

Have beauty still.

There is an arch revealed by barren limbs

And students hand-in-hand.

Understand:

This image calls for hymns.

A nearer sun would bathe the walls

In vernal gold;

But keep your summers, springs and falls:

The year and spires are old,

And we are young—and these shall always be the same.

Yale needs no leafy frame.