Blue-green firs waver in a water wan,
Save where red boles and robes unmoved and dim
Show the keen wizard Frost prevails upon
Even rivers; a low clink bewrays a slim
Bird who hath lighted on the marge to drink.
Aerial webs invisible, that link
Sere russet fern with glumes of yellow grass,
And green fir-needles, are palpable star-chains
Of fairy jewels; from furze points they pass;
Every dark green lance of broom sustains
Like burden; all are fledged with crystal soft,
Mist frozen in plumelets; many a taper tuft
Adorns the wine-stained bramble, and the blade,
And bronzy twigs of trees bereft of shade.

Brakes white with frost, and orange reeds are fair.
Beneath yon sombre masses of cold firs.
Stream-mirrored, while a silver birch's hair
Hangs, like dark smoke, athwart the leaden air.
Winter upon small marish pools confers.
As on our panes, with palms and wreaths of hers,
A delicate starflower beauty, rivalling
All fragile water-petals of sweet spring:
Sprinkles wine-dark ferruginous fens and ling,
Desolate lowlands where the bittern booms.
And now at nightfall, from where forest looms,
A dragon train wails 'thwart the solitude
Flame-breathing, with a long self-luminous brood.
And livid long low steam among grey glooms.

Snow falls — hath fallen — all the land is white.
Pure snow clings frozen to labyrinths of trees:
They in a narrow lane aloft unite;
Winter hath clothed with a pure foliage these,
Pitying them, bereft of spring's delight.
How fairylike their veiled pale silences!
Feathery shadows a grey mist informing
With beauty, as frail corallines dim sea.
Some alien planet our earth seems to be!
Earth lies fair in her shroud and slumbereth;
So fair the pure white silence of dim death!
Lo! the sun's fleeting phantom faintly warming
Mists into heaven's blue, while they flush and flee:
Budding birchsprays hang laughing jewelry
Of opal ice athwart the lift that clears;
Clinking it falls, or melts in jubilant tears.

Gaily snow flounces earthward in the sun,
Or frozen glisters with an icy edge
To windward of the elmbole; birds in dun
Plumage, fair-formed elves, whistle in the hedge,
Scatter its ermine mantle; as they run,
Dint earth's blithe stainless carpet; shake the foam
Splashed upon all green brambles, and red-fruited
Hollies, or thorns, or briars, where they roam;
Our ever sweet-songed robin richly suited,
And birds reserving for a leafier home
And lovelier lands the voice wherein love luted,
Erewhile in yon dead summer: shadows blue
Nestle where beast or man hath trodden deep
In crisp-starred snow; fur mantles fair endue
Thatched roof, wain, barn and byre, and slowly creep
To a fringe of diamond icicle: the waters are asleep.
No skaters whirr and whirl, as erst, upon the imprisoned grey
Smooth water; no chubby children slide and shout and play.
Pile the illumining logs within, and let them crackle gay!
Bright holly and green mistletoe cheering our hearths we keep:
Warm glint the polished chairs and glasses, while yule-fires glow deep.
But when dear babes lie dreaming, with a halo near the moon,
And at their nursery doors are set small fairy-appealing shoon.
There will float a voice of mystic bells over earth's pale swound,
And sweet sad fays of memory to haunt us in their sound!

Do the little brown twigs complain
⁠That they have n't a leaf to wear?
Or the grass, when the wind and rain
⁠Pull at her matted hair ?

Do the little brooks struggle and moan
⁠When the ice has frozen their feet?
Or the moss turn gray as a stone,
⁠Because of the cold and sleet?

Do the buds that the leaves left bare
⁠To strive with their wintry fate,
In a moment of deep despair.
⁠Destroy what they cannot create?
Oh, nature is teaching us there
⁠To patiently wait, and wait.