Poems (McDonald)/Winter

by Mary Noel McDonald

For works with similar titles, see Winter.

WINTER.

"I deem thee not unlovely, though thou com'st
With a stern visage."
Mrs. Sigourney

I love thee, Winter, though thy name
 Comes harshly on the ear,
And foes have called thy frosty face
 The saddest of the year:
They say thy tears in hailstones fall—
That bitter blasts are in thy call—
That all things shudder, when thy cry
In the wild tempest rushes by.

Well, though thy face may wear a frown,
 It is not always so;
And though thou send'st in plenty down,
On barren heath or peopled town,
 The pale unsullied snow—
Full many a pleasure does it bring,
Upon its silent flakey wing:
The merry hills ring out amain,
When it lies thick on hill and plain.

Thou fling'st thy jewels on the bough
 Of every naked tree,
And hang'st thy pendant diamonds, where
 The poorest hind may see;
And oft thou giv'st us skies as fair
As gentle Spring is wont to wear;
While pleasantly the soft winds play
Through all the clear and balmy day.

The Christmas faggot blazing high—
 The games of wonderous skill—
And oft the dismal legend told,
Of nightly ghost or robber bold,
 To make young bosoms thrill;
The gambols in the new fall'n snow—
The white balls tossing to and fro,—
These prove thou hast some joys to bless,
Though thou art famed for dreariness.

Then let the roses cease to bloom
 Beside my cottage door;
And wild birds seek a greener home
 Upon some distant shore;-
The rose of love still blooms for me,
With all its wonted fragrancy;
And fond affection hath a tone,
The greenwood songsters ne'er have known.

The summer's flush, its glowing breath,
 Its breezes, fruits, and flowers,
Have charms for all- but still I prize
 The dark and wintry hours:
Storms may be thine, and cold, and snow,
And keen the whist'ling winds may blow;
And yet, though wanting many a grace,
Winter, I love thy rugged face.