Winter, with hoary locks and frozen face,
Hath thrown his naked sceptre from his hand;
And he hath mended now his sluggish pace,
Beside the blazing yule-block fire to stand.
His ice-bound visage ’ginneth to expand;
And, for the naked pine-branch which he swayed.
He, smiling, hath a leaf-green sceptre planned;
The ivy and the holly he doth braid,
Beneath whose berries red is many a frolick played.
Now not in vain hath been the blooming spring,
The fruitful summer and the autumn sere;
For jolly Christmas to his board doth bring
The happy fulness of the passed year;
Man’s creeping blood and moody looks to cheer.
With mirthful revel rings each happy dome;
Unfelt within the snows and winds severe;
The tables groan with beef, the tankards foam,
And Winter blandly smiles to cheer the British home.