294 
THE FIRST OF DECEMBER. 
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; 
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; 
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall, 
Maugre the farmer’s sighs ; and, at the gate, 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 
And when his hours are numbered, and the world 
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work, 
The frolic architecture of the snow. 
Southey 
rrHOUGH no more the musing ear 
Delights to listen to the breeze 
That lingers o’er the shade, 
I love thee. Winter ! well. 
Sweet are the harmonies of Spring ; 
Sweet is the Summer’s evening gale; 
And sweet the Autumnal winds that shako 
The many-colored grove, 
