Poems (Cook)/Winter is here
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.
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.
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.
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.
No down-cover'd peaches are found on the board,
There's no sparkling Bucellas to sip;
But stain'd fingers proclaim that the walnuts are stored,
And red wine is deep'ning the lip.
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.
No down-cover'd peaches are found on the board,
There's no sparkling Bucellas to sip;
But stain'd fingers proclaim that the walnuts are stored,
And red wine is deep'ning the lip.
Winter is here—all the flowers are dead,
No posy is gracing the room;
But coral and pearls of rare lustre are spread
In the holly and mistletoe bloom.
The herds are brought in from the verdureless hills
To their coverts, for shelter and food;
The trout nestle deep in the rush-border'd rills,
The rooks have come back to their wood.
No posy is gracing the room;
But coral and pearls of rare lustre are spread
In the holly and mistletoe bloom.
The herds are brought in from the verdureless hills
To their coverts, for shelter and food;
The trout nestle deep in the rush-border'd rills,
The rooks have come back to their wood.
Winter is here—the old, tottering man,
Closely muffled, goes shivering forth;
The bare-headed urchins laugh loud as they can,
With their glowing cheeks turn'd to the north.
The seat 'neath the beeches is tenantless now;
There's no loitering form in the shade;
But the dance gives a warmth and a flush to the brow,
While the quickest of jig tunes is play'd.
Closely muffled, goes shivering forth;
The bare-headed urchins laugh loud as they can,
With their glowing cheeks turn'd to the north.
The seat 'neath the beeches is tenantless now;
There's no loitering form in the shade;
But the dance gives a warmth and a flush to the brow,
While the quickest of jig tunes is play'd.
Winter is here—let us welcome him on,
Remember Old Christmas is near;
And when Christmas with all his gay feasting has gone,
Why then we've the merry New Year.
Here's a health to the rich who will give to the poor,—
Let Plenty and Mercy ne'er part;
And though bitter winds blow through the white clouds of snow,
No Winter shall fall on the heart.
Remember Old Christmas is near;
And when Christmas with all his gay feasting has gone,
Why then we've the merry New Year.
Here's a health to the rich who will give to the poor,—
Let Plenty and Mercy ne'er part;
And though bitter winds blow through the white clouds of snow,
No Winter shall fall on the heart.