I 134 ] 



WINTER 



When winter fringes every bough 



With his fantastic wreath, 

 And puts the seal of silence now 



Upon the leaves beneath; 



When every stream in its penthouse 



Goes gurgling on its way, 

 And in his gallery the mouse 



Nibbleth the meadow hay; 



Methinks the summer still is nigh. 



And lurketh underneath. 

 As that same meadow mouse doth lie 



Snug in that last year's heath. 



And if perchance the chickadee 



Lisp a faint note anon. 

 The snow is summer's canopy. 



Which she herself put on. 



Fair blossoms deck the cheerful trees. 

 And dazzling fruits depend; 



The north wind sighs a summer breeze. 

 The nipping frosts to fend. 



