Winter.

The long days came and went; the riotous bees     Tore the warm grapes in many a dusty-vine,     And men grew faint and thin with too much ease,     And Winter gave no sign:     But all the while beyond the northmost woods     He sat and smiled and watched his spirits play     In elfish dance and eery roundelay,     Tripping in many moods     With snowy curve and fairy crystal shine.     But now the time is come: with southward speed     The elfin spirits pass: a secret sting     Hath fallen and smitten flower and fruit and weed,     And every leafy thing.     The wet woods moan: the dead leaves break and fall;     In still night-watches wakeful men have heard     The muffled pipe of many a passing bird,     High over hut and hall,     Straining to southward with unresting wing.     And then they come with colder feet, and fret     The winds with snow, and tuck the streams to sleep     With icy sheet and gleaming coverlet,     And fill the valleys deep     With curvd drifts, and a strange music raves     Among the pines, sometimes in wails, and then     In whistled laughter, till affrighted men     Draw close, and into caves     And earthy holes the blind beasts curl and creep.     And so all day above the toiling heads     Of men's poor chimneys, full of impish freaks,     Tearing and twisting in tight-curld shreds     The vain unnumbered reeks,     The Winter speeds his fairies forth and mocks     Poor bitten men with laughter icy cold,     Turning the brown of youth to white and old     With hoary-woven locks,     And grey men young with roses in their cheeks.     And after thaws, when liberal water swells     The bursting eaves, he biddeth drip and grow     The curly horns of ribbd icicles     In many a beard-like row.     In secret moods of mercy and soft dole,     Old warpd wrecks and things of mouldering death     That summer scorns and man abandoneth     His careful hands console     With lawny robes and draperies of snow.     And when night comes, his spirits with chill feet,     Winged with white mirth and noiseless mockery,     Across men's pallid windows peer and fleet,     And smiling silverly     Draw with mute fingers on the frosted glass     Quaint fairy shapes of icd witcheries,     Pale flowers and glinting ferns and frigid trees     And meads of mystic grass,     Graven in many an austere phantasy.     But far away the Winter dreams alone,     Rustling among his snow-drifts, and resigns     Cold fondling ears to hear the cedars moan     In dusky-skirted lines     Strange answers of an ancient runic call;     Or somewhere watches with his antique eyes,     Gray-chill with frosty-lidded reveries,     The silvery moonshine fall     In misty wedges through his girth of pines.     Poor mortals haste and hide away: creep soon     Into your icy beds: the embers die;     And on your frosted panes the pallid moon     Is glimmering brokenly.     Mutter faint prayers that spring will come e'erwhile,     Scarring with thaws and dripping days and nights     The shining majesty of him that smites     And slays you with a smile     Upon his silvery lips, of glinting mockery.