WINTER.
Old Winter, thou art here! December
Introduces thee, and I am told
Thou wearest a long beard, and art old
And gray, if rightly I remember.
They say thy locks are full of ice,
And blue and peaked is thy nose;
And on thy cheeks are pearls froze,
That 'scaped down from thine eyes.
Wrapped in a cloak, close to thy chin,
Thou comest prepar'd for sleet and snow;
And fearest not tho' Boreas blow—
Forcing himself unwelcomed within
Poor-warmed dwellings of poverty:
But didst thou cause their misery?
TO IRONQUILL.
Ho! Ironquill! friend Ironquill,
Why do n't you start your rhyming mill?
How can you keep the old thing still,
I'd like to know?
And, if the water ran up hill,
I'd make her go.
I have not seen a strain of rhyme
Fresh from your pen for this long time;
I'll wage a nickel 'gainst a dime.
You 're thinkin' strong;
And ere we think, you 'll make us climb,
To hear your song.
