 | Orellana and Other Poems |  |
237
WINTER'S PALE MARTYR.
Here, in the social city, by the hearth,This winter midnight, in an easy-chair,
While the flames bicker on the bars, and flare,
And a wild east wind blowing up the Firth
Shouts down the chimney in its boisterous mirth,
Put on your hat and face me if you dare—
I think me of a hillside lone and bare
Far up among the Ochil Hills of Perth.
How piteously it waited for the spring
With a cold snow-drop sickening in its hand!
How patiently it waited for the wing,
That never came, of summer in the land!
And now it stands in snow-shirt shivering,
Winter's pale martyr, meekly at command!
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