  When Winter fringes every bough With his fantastic wreath, And puts the seal of silence now Upon the leaves beneath; When every stream in its pent-house Goes gurgling on its way, And in his gallery the mouse Nibbleth the meadow hay; Methinks the summer still is nigh, And lurketh underneath, As that same meadow-mouse doth lie Snug in that last year’s heath. And if perchance the chicadee Lisp a faint note anon, The snow is summer’s canopy, Which she herself put on. Fair blossoms deck the cheerful trees, And dazzling fruits depend; The north wind sighs a summer breeze, The nipping frosts to fend, Bringing glad tidings unto me, The while I stand all ear, Of a serene eternity, Which need not winter fear. Out on the silent pond straightway The restless ice doth crack, Amid the deafening rack. Eager I hasten to the vale, As if I heard brave news, How Nature held high festival, Which it were hard to lose. I gambol with my neighbor ice, And sympathising quake, As each new crack darts in a trice Across the gladsome lake. One with the cricket in the ground, And fagot on the hearth, Resounds the rare domestic sound Along the forest path. |
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