Wizardly suspended,
  Icily adream;
  When the new buds thicken,
  Can this crystal quicken,
  Now so strangely sleeping,
  Once more go a-leaping
  Down the rocky ledges,
  All the summer long,
  Murmuring its song?

  Winter magic

  Winter that hath few friends yet numbers those
    Of spirit erect and delicate of eye;
  All may applaud sweet Summer, with her rose,
    And Autumn, with her banners in the sky;
  But when from the earth’s cheek the colour goes,
    Her old adorers from her presence fly.

  So cold her bosom seems, such icy glare
    Is in her eyes, while on the frozen mere
  The shrill ice creaks in the congealing air;
    Where is the lover that shall call her dear,
  Or the devotion that shall find her fair? 
    The white-robed widow of the vanished year.

  Yet hath she loveliness and many flowers,
    Dreams hath she too and tender reveries,
  Tranced mid the rainbows of her gleaming bowers,
    Or the hushed temples of her pillared trees;
  Summer has scarce such soft and silent hours,
    Autumn has no such antic wizardries.

  Yea! he that takes her to his bosom knows,
    Lost in the magic crystal of her eyes,
  Upon her vestal cheek a fairer rose,
    What rapture and what passionate surprise
  Awaits his kiss beneath her mask of snows,
    And what strange fire beneath her pallor lies.

  Beauty is hers all unconfused of sense,
    Lustral, austere, and of the spirit fine;
  No cloudy fumes of myrrh and frankincense
    Drug in her arms the ecstasy divine;
  But stellar awe that kneels in high suspense,
    And hallowed glories of the inner shrine.

  And, for the idle summer, in our blood
    Pleasures hath she of rapid tingling joy,
  With ruddy laughter ’neath her frozen hood,
    Purging our mortal metal of alloy,
  Stern benefactress of beatitude,
    Turning our leaden age to girl and boy.

  A lover’s universe

  When winter comes and takes away the rose,
    And all the singing of sweet birds is done,
  The warm and honeyed world lost deep in snows,
    Still, independent of the summer sun,
  In vain, with sullen roar,
  December shakes my door,
  And sleet upon the pane
  Threatens my peace in vain,
    While, seated by the fire upon my knee,
    My love abides with me.

  For he who, wise in time, his harvest yields
    Reaped into barns, sweet-smelling and secure,
  Smiles as the rain beats sternly on his fields,
    For wealth is his no winter can make poor;
  Safe all his waving gold
  Shut in against the cold,
    Treasure of summer grass—­
    So sit I with my lass,
    My harvest sheaves of all her garnered charms
    Safe in my happy arms.