Winter
by Robert SoutheyA wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee,
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey
As the long moss upon the apple-tree;
Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose,
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,
Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair,
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth;
Or circled by them as thy lips declare
Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire,
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,
Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire,
Or taste the old October brown and bright.
I'm juggling quite a few things at the moment -- beginning of term, getting some projects up and running -- and we have a winter storm coming in, so posting might be light for the next week and a half, depending on various things. (I'll only be at the edge of the winter storm, but nothing here is properly built for a serious winter, so there's a lot to prepare for.)
