Winter
A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee,Old Winter, with a rugged beard as greyAs the long moss upon the apple-tree;Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose,Close muffled up, and on thy dreary wayPlodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair,Watching the children at their Christmas mirth;Or circled by them as thy lips declareSome merry jest, or tale of murder dire,Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire,Or taste the old October brown and bright.
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