THOUGH Winter seldom deigns to smile,
He does not always frown;
He has a bold and cheery style,
And wears an ivy crown.
His mantle is of frosted snow,
And at his feet cloth holly blow.
He is a friend to ruddy youth,
And all who’ve strength in store,
But somewhat surly and uncouth
To those who‘re weak and poor.
How thankful we, who‘re blest with health,
Should be for this, the best of wealth’.
What graceful forms the frost congeals
By night upon the glass!
The shapes and crystals it reveals
All human works surpass.
The beauteous figures, thus ernhoss’d,
Proceed from God, who breathes the frost.
How pure and white is driven snow!
What else so fine and fair?
There’s nothing that we see below
That with it can compare;
And yet to God, whose search is keen,
A blood-washed soul is far more clean.
But wait awhile, and, Winter past,
The Spring-time will be here;
When, gone the last tempestuous blast,
The flowers again will cheer;
While woods will echo with the song
Of all the feather’d tuneful throng.
And soon, far from this wintry earth,
Shall those who’re Christ’s arise,
Forever leave its drought and dearth,
And dwell above the skies;
Their Saviour see — be like their Lord —
And praise His name in full accord.
T.