I
Red of nose and white of face,
Bent his desk of ice before,
Winter doth his theme retrace
In the season's quatuor,--
Beating measure and the ground
With a frozen foot for us,
Singing with uncertain sound
Olden tunes and tremulous.
And as Haendel's wig sublime
Trembling shook its powder, oft
Flutter as he taps his time
Snow-flakes in a flurry soft.