  Now Hertha hath, without a doubt, Got all her winter peltry out; And, for the weeds dispersÈd show Dark through that field of fallen snow, We may felicitate in her The happy choice of minever. The well beside the rusty shed Hath screened his pent-house lapt in lead In candour of Carthusian cowl, (Soft as the plumage of white owl), Whose pail, for all the long night’s drouth, Hath foam about his sable mouth. How dark my cottage window eyes Her wonted landscape’s white disguise— Ho, Sulky-face, thine own brick ledge Beareth such burden as the hedge, And thatch, for all the warmth within, Is bearded like a Capuchin! |
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