Winter has reached thee once again at last; And now the rambler, whom thy groves yet please, Feels on his housewarm lips the thin air freeze; While in his shrugging neck the resolute blast Comes edging; and the leaves, in heaps down cast, He shuffles with his hastening foot, and sees The cold sky whitening through the wiry trees, And sighs to think his loitering noons have passed. And do I love thee less to paint thee so? No; this the season is of beauty still Doubled at heart; -- of smoke with whirling glee Uptumbling ever from the blaze below, -- And home remembered most, -- and oh, loved hill, The second, and the last, away from thee! |