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274
WINTER.
No stir awakes in the death-like woods,
In those still enchanted solitudes,
Wreathed in all wild fantastic forms
Are the tomb-like halls of the King of Storms,
The streams are all chained, and their prisoned waves
Sleep a charmèd sleep within crystal caves;
No stir in the waters, no sound on the air,—
Their inmates find shelter, they only know where;
But cold is the comfort they own at the best,
When the icicle hangs where the swallow found rest,
And a few of Earth's wise things when summer was gay,
Laid by something safe for a Winterly day;
But the wisest among them have taken a sleep,
Snug coiled up, and warm, while the snow lies so deep,
Where the keen frost may bite, yet can do them no harm,
As they dream of the summer and all that is warm:
No breath in the valley, no breeze on the hill,
No stir in the farm, all is dull, all is chill;
And the cattle lie huddled within the fold,—
    Cold, cold! it is very cold.

    Warm, warm! it is so warm
    Within the Heart, that all is warm!
The Heart knows a secret to keep out the chill,
Let it come when it likes, and stay as it will,
For, the keener it blows, and the deeper it snows,
The higher the pure flame of charity glows!
When earth grows unkind to her children, nor cares
How soon they may sink to that cold breast of hers;