Now let the weather do its worst, With frost and sleet and blowing, Rage like a beldam wild and curst, And have its fill of snowing. Now let the ice in savage vise Grip meadow, brook, and branches, Down from the north pour winter forth In roaring avalanches.
I turn my collar to the blast And greet the storm with laughter: Your day, old Winter! use it fast, For Spring is coming after. The world may wear a frigid air, But ah! its heart is burning; Soon, soon will May dance down this way: The year is at the turning.
There's not a sabre-charge of cold But brings the blossoms nearer; By every frost-flower we shall hold The violets the dearer. So rage and blow the drifting snow And have your fill of sorrow: The turning years bring smiles for tears; We'll greet the spring to-morrow!
High like skeletons grim The trees hold up their arms; The last leaf's hurried from its limb By the tempest's wild alarms; The river ripples gray and cold, And autumn's o'er like a story told.
Deep in the lonely wood The leaves lie thickly strown; The timorous rabbit finds him food, The snow-bird seeks his own; The cricket long has ceased his song, For the breath of winter's cold and strong.
Close to the level plain The snow clings like a sheet; The chimney moans as if in pain, Lashed by the hissing sleet; And all good men are glad to be Where the Yule-log sparkles merrily.
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