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A WINTER SKETCH.
W
hen
the snow begins to feather,
And the woods begin to roar
Clashing angry boughs together,
As the breakers grind the shore
Nature then a bankrupt goes,
Full of wreck and full of woes.
When the swan for warmer forelands
Leaves the sea-firth’s icebound edge,
When the gray geese from the morelands
Cleave the clouds in noisy wedge,
Woodlands stand in frozen chains,
Hung with ropes of solid rains.
Shepherds creep to byre and haven,
Sheep in drifts are nipped and numb;
Some belated rook or raven
Rocks upon a sign-post dumb;
Mere-waves, solid as a clod,
Roar with skaters, thunder-shod.
All the roofs and chimneys rumble;
Roads are ridged with slush and sleet;
Down the orchard apples tumble;
Ploughboys stamp their frosty feet;
Millers, jolted down the lanes,
Hardly feel for cold their reins.
Snipes are calling from the trenches,
Frozen half and half at flow;
In the porches servant wenches
Work with shovels at the snow;
Rusty blackbirds, weak of wing,
Clean forget they once could sing.
Dogs and boys fetch down the cattle,
Deep in mire and powdered pale;
Spinning-wheels commence to rattle;
Landlords spice the smoking ale.
Hail, white winter, lady fine,
In a cup of elder wine!
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