Winter in Northumberland

Outside the garden     The wet skies harden;     The gates are barred on     The summer side:     "Shut out the flower-time,     Sunbeam and shower-time;     Make way for our time,"     Wild winds have cried.     Green once and cheery,     The woods, worn weary,     Sigh as the dreary     Weak sun goes home:     A great wind grapples     The wave, and dapples     The dead green floor of the sea with foam.     Through fell and moorland,     And salt-sea foreland,     Our noisy norland     Resounds and rings;     Waste waves thereunder     Are blown in sunder,     And winds make thunder     With cloudwide wings;     Sea-drift makes dimmer     The beacon's glimmer;     Nor sail nor swimmer     Can try the tides;     And snowdrifts thicken     Where, when leaves quicken,     Under the heather the sundew hides.     Green land and red land,     Moorside and headland,     Are white as dead land,     Are all as one;     Nor honied heather,     Nor bells to gather,     Fair with fair weather     And faithful sun:     Fierce frost has eaten     All flowers that sweeten     The fells rain-beaten;     And winds their foes     Have made the snow's bed     Down in the rose-bed;     Deep in the snow's bed bury the rose.     Bury her deeper     Than any sleeper;     Sweet dreams will keep her     All day, all night;     Though sleep benumb her     And time o'ercome her,     She dreams of summer,     And takes delight,     Dreaming and sleeping     In love's good keeping,     While rain is weeping     And no leaves cling;     Winds will come bringing her     Comfort, and singing her     Stories and songs and good news of the spring.     Draw the white curtain     Close, and be certain     She takes no hurt in     Her soft low bed;     She feels no colder,     And grows not older,     Though snows enfold her     From foot to head;     She turns not chilly     Like weed and lily     In marsh or hilly     High watershed,     Or green soft island     In lakes of highland;     She sleeps awhile, and she is not dead.     For all the hours,     Come sun, come showers,     Are friends of flowers,     And fairies all;     When frost entrapped her,     They came and lapped her     In leaves, and wrapped her     With shroud and pall;     In red leaves wound her,     With dead leaves bound her     Dead brows, and round her     A death-knell rang;     Rang the death-bell for her,     Sang, "is it well for her,     Well, is it well with you, rose?" they sang.     O what and where is     The rose now, fairies,     So shrill the air is,     So wild the sky?     Poor last of roses,     Her worst of woes is     The noise she knows is     The winter's cry;     His hunting hollo     Has scared the swallow;     Fain would she follow     And fain would fly:     But wind unsettles     Her poor last petals;     Had she but wings, and she would not die.     Come, as you love her,     Come close and cover     Her white face over,     And forth again     Ere sunset glances     On foam that dances,     Through lowering lances     Of bright white rain;     And make your playtime     Of winter's daytime,     As if the Maytime     Were here to sing;     As if the snowballs     Were soft like blowballs,     Blown in a mist from the stalk in the spring.     Each reed that grows in     Our stream is frozen,     The fields it flows in     Are hard and black;     The water-fairy     Waits wise and wary     Till time shall vary     And thaws come back.     "O sister, water,"     The wind besought her,     "O twin-born daughter     Of spring with me,     Stay with me, play with me,     Take the warm way with me,     Straight for the summer and oversea."     But winds will vary,     And wise and wary     The patient fairy     Of water waits;     All shrunk and wizen,     In iron prison,     Till spring re-risen     Unbar the gates;     Till, as with clamor     Of axe and hammer,     Chained streams that stammer     And struggle in straits     Burst bonds that shiver,     And thaws deliver     The roaring river in stormy spates.     In fierce March weather     White waves break tether,     And whirled together     At either hand,     Like weeds uplifted,     The tree-trunks rifted     In spars are drifted,     Like foam or sand,     Past swamp and sallow     And reed-beds callow,     Through pool and shallow,     To wind and lee,     Till, no more tongue-tied,     Full flood and young tide     Roar down the rapids and storm the sea.     As men's cheeks faded     On shores invaded,     When shorewards waded     The lords of fight;     When churl and craven     Saw hard on haven     The wide-winged raven     At mainmast height;     When monks affrighted     To windward sighted     The birds full-flighted     Of swift sea-kings;     So earth turns paler     When Storm the sailor     Steers in with a roar in the race of his wings.     O strong sea-sailor,     Whose cheek turns paler     For wind or hail or     For fear of thee?     O far sea-farer,     O thunder-bearer,     Thy songs are rarer     Than soft songs be.     O fleet-foot stranger,     O north-sea ranger     Through days of danger     And ways of fear,     Blow thy horn here for us,     Blow the sky clear for us,     Send us the song of the sea to hear.     Roll the strong stream of it     Up, till the scream of it     Wake from a dream of it     Children that sleep,     Seamen that fare for them     Forth, with a prayer for them:     Shall not God care for them     Angels not keep?     Spare not the surges     Thy stormy scourges;     Spare us the dirges     Of wives that weep.     Turn back the waves for us:     Dig no fresh graves for us,     Wind, in the manifold gulfs of the deep.     O stout north-easter,     Sea-king, land-waster,     For all thine haste, or     Thy stormy skill,     Yet hadst thou never,     For all endeavour,     Strength to dissever     Or strength to spill,     Save of his giving     Who gave our living,     Whose hands are weaving     What ours fulfil;     Whose feet tread under     The storms and thunder;     Who made our wonder to work his will.     His years and hours,     His world's blind powers,     His stars and flowers,     His nights and days,     Sea-tide and river,     And waves that shiver,     Praise God, the giver     Of tongues to praise.     Winds in their blowing,     And fruits in growing;     Time in its going,     While time shall be;     In death and living,     With one thanksgiving,     Praise him whose hand is the strength of the sea.