Then came old January, wrapped well

In many weeds to keep the cold away;

Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell,

And blow his nayles to warm them if he may;

For they were numb'd with holding all the day

An hatchet keene, with which he felled wood,

And from the trees did lop the needlesse spray;

Upon a huge great earth-pot steane he stood,

From whose wide mouth there flowed forth the Romane flood.

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,

Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er the fields,

Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,

And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.

The sled and traveler stopp'd, the courier's feet

Delay'd, all friends shut out, the house-mates sit

Around the radiant fire-place, inclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.