WINTER.
I deem thee not unlovely, though thou com'st
With a stern visage. To the tuneful bird,
The blushing flowret, the rejoicing stream,
Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man
Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry.
Thy lengthened eve is full of fireside joys,
And deathless linking of warm heart to heart,
So that the hoarse storm passes by unheard.
Earth, robed in white, a peaceful sabbath holds,
And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet.
She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough,
And from the harvest shouting.
Man should rest
Thus from his fevered passions, and exhale
The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought,
And drink in holy health. As the tost bark
Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay
To trim its shattered cordage, and restore
Its riven sails—so should the toil-worn mind
Refit for Time's rough voyage. Man, perchance,
Soured by the world's sharp commerce, or impaired
By the wild wanderings of his summer way,
Turns like a truant scholar to his home,
And yields his nature to sweet influences
That purify and save.
The ruddy boy
Comes with his shouting school-mates from their sport,
On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star
