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Winter
by [?]


A wrinkled, crabbed man they picture thee,

Old winter, with a rugged beard as gray

As the long moss upon the apple-tree;

Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose,

Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way

Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.

They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,

Old winter! seated in thy great armed-chair,

Watching the children at their Christmas mirth;

Or circled by them as thy lips declare

Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire,

Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night;

Pausing at times to rouse the smouldering fire,

Or taste the old October brown and bright.