 | The New Medusa, and other poems |  |
WINTER.
The month is come when Nature may displayHer frosty jewelry in all men's eyes;
And when the wind which through the brushwood sighs
Brings down her brilliants in a sparkling spray.
Like spots of blood upon the snowstrewn way
The crimson berries lie, the robins' prize;
While in the leafless woods the poor man tries
To find some faggots for the bitter day.
On every sleeping pool the winter fits
With unseen hand a strong and glassy lid;
The fish all quaking down below are hid,
As overhead the circling skater flits.
While hoary Christmas at his banquet sits,
Where all whom hunger pinches not are bid.
| The New Medusa, and other poems | |