XVII — WINTER

In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane

The redbreast looks in vain

For hips and haws,

Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane

The silver pencil of the winter draws.

When all the snowy hill

And the bare woods are still;

When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs,

And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire,

Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs —

More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!