Winter

The flute, whence Summer’s dreamy finger-tips Drew music,--ripening the cramped kernels in The burly chestnut and the chinquapin, Red-rounding-out the oval haws and hips,-- Now Winter crushes to his stormy lips, And surly songs whistle around his chin; Now the wild days and wilder nights begin When, at the eaves, the lengthening icicle drips. Thy songs, O Summer, are not lost so soon! Still dwells a memory in thy hollow flute, Which unto Winter’s masculine airs doth give Thy own creative qualities of tune, Through which we see each bough bend white with fruit, Each branch with bloom, in snow commemorative.