To strike the ice with a stroke of fear;
And to make the victim the story tell,
With a voice as clear as a tinkling bell.
The winter has come, and he howls at the door,
And puffing his cheeks,
He whistles and shrieks,—
A shriek of ill-will to the suffering poor,
That maketh the widow clasp her sons,
And huddle together her shiv’ring ones.
The winter has come, and the sorrow besides,