 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
184
WINTER.
As some fair statue, white and hard and cold,Smiling in marble, rigid yet at rest,
Or like some gentle child of beauteous mould,
Whose placid face and softly swelling breast
Are fix'd in death, and on them bear imprest
His magic seal of peace,—so, frozen lies
The loveliness of Nature: every tree
Stands hung with lace against the clear blue skies;
The hills are giant waves of glistering snow;
Rare northern fowl, now strangely tame to see,
With ruffling plumage cluster on the bough,
And tempt the murderous gun; mouse-like the wren
Hides in the new-cut hedge, and all things now
Fear starving Winter more than cruel men.
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