Page:Poems Cook.djvu/229

WINTER IS HERE.

Winter is here—the old robin has come
 To remind us with tip-tapping bill,
That his morning repast of the delicate crumb
 Should be spread for him now on the sill.
Thou shalt have it, all saucy and rude as thou art,
 Strutting up in thy warrior red;
I adore thy sweet note, and I love thy bold heart;
 So come here, pretty Bob, and be fed.

Winter is here—for the dove-cage is found.
 Taken down from the vine-cover'd wall;
The rough-coated spaniel and favourite hound
 Sneak in to the fire-lighted hall:
The door that was flinging wide open of late,
 Till night sent her heralding star;
Where the porch-trellis bent with the eglantine's weight,
 Is now fast with the bolt and the bar.

Winter is here—the gay hearth is undrest,
 All stript of its wreathings of green;
The cricket once more whistles out from its nest,
 And the bright snapping wood-blaze is seen.
We circle that blaze when the morning's dark frown
 Lingers long on the mist-cover'd pane;
A few hours roll over, the dim sun goes down,
 And we meet by that warm blaze again.

Winter is here—there's no moth to be caught,
 E'en the daisy has shrunk from the blast;
The fields are deserted, the grove is unsought,
 And the oak-tree is leafless at last.

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