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THE poets, with almost universal consent, have dealt with 

 winter as a season only to be endured as the xne Beauty 

 antechamber of spring. 'See, winter comes,' of winter 

 wrote our Scottish Thomson, who made the phases of the 

 year his special study 



' See, winter comes, to rule the varied year, 

 Sullen and sad, with all his rising train 

 Vapours and clouds and storms. Be these my theme. 



Thus pass'd the time, 



Till, through the lucid chambers of the south, 

 Look'd out the joyous spring, look'd out and smiled.' 



Even Tennyson, than whom none ever upheld a more 

 faithful mirror to Nature, was seldom inspired by her 

 winter mood. His song could not be restrained when 



' The ground flame of the crocus breaks the mould, 



Fair spring slides hither o'er the southern sea, 

 Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop cold, 



That trembles not to kisses of the bee. 

 Come, spring, for now from all the dripping eaves 



The spear of ice has wept itself away, 

 And, hour by hour, unfolding woodbine leaves, 



O'er his uncertain shadow droops the day.' 



All his verse is redolent of growth and blossom. 



' Can trouble live with April days, 

 Or sadness in the summer moons 1 

 Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 

 The little speedwell's darling blue, 

 Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, 

 Laburnums, dropping- wells of fire.' 

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