The Winter Scene I (The rutted roads are all like iron; skies)

The rutted roads are all like iron; skies Are keen and brilliant; only the oak-leaves cling In the bare woods, or the hardy bitter-sweet; Drivers have put their sheepskin jackets on; And all the ponds are sealed with sheeted ice That rings with stroke of skate and hockey-stick, Or in the twilight cracks with running whoop. Bring in the logs of oak and hickory, And make an ample blaze on the wide hearth. Now is the time, with winter o'er the world, For books and friends and yellow candle-light, And timeless lingering by the settling fire. While all the shuddering stars are keen with cold.