Shelley.
31. When the angel of dread Winter cometh,
But not in anger. As he speeds along,
Borne on the chilling wind, he bids appear
A thousand varied hues the trees among!
What magic beauty doth his presence fling
Round every leaf that quivers in the dell,
Or shrub that to the mountain side doth cling!
And the bright scene the calm lake mirrors well,
As if within its depths were wove some golden spell.