IT is a morn in winter,
The air is white with snow;
And on the chinar branches
Jasmins seem to grow.
The furrowed fields and hill-tops
With icy treasures shine,
Like scales of silver fishes,
Or jewels in a mine.
The bitter wind has banished
The silent nightingale,
And the rose, like some coy maiden,
Is muffled in a veil.
Its silver song of summer
No more the fountain sings,
And frozen are the rivers
That fed the bath of kings!
No flower-girls in the market,
For flowers are out of date;
And the keepers of the roses
Have shut the garden-gate.
No happy guests are drinking,
Their goblets crowned with vine,
For gone are all the merchants
That sold the merry wine!
And gone the dancing women,
Before the winds and snows;
Their summer souls have followed
The nightingale and rose!