I

Red of nose and white of face, Bent his desk of ice before, Winter doth his theme retrace In the season's quatuor,--

Beating measure and the ground With a frozen foot for us, Singing with uncertain sound Olden tunes and tremulous.

And as Haendel's wig sublime Trembling shook its powder, oft Flutter as he taps his time Snow-flakes in a flurry soft.