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SONNET XII.
A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey
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 thro' sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth
Old Winter! seated in thy great arm'd 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 move the languid fire,
Or taste the old October brown and bright.
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey
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 thro' sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth
Old Winter! seated in thy great arm'd 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 move the languid fire,
Or taste the old October brown and bright.
