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| SPIRIT of winter, breathe thou thro’ my song, | |
| I sing not to upbraid as some have sung, | |
| Nor lift I up the puny pipes of scorn | |
| Against the utterance of thine iron tongue. | |
| I am thy child; I boast that I was born | 5 |
| Upon thy threshold, and have drunk thy wine, | |
| And in thy wilds been nurtured and made strong, | |
| To match my strength with thine. | |
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| Season of quickening joys and sharp delights, | |
| They love thee best who meet thee face to face, | 10 |
| In thine own fields, and on thy channelled heights, | |
| Or on the shining floors of open space | |
| Breast thine assaults, and shun | |
| The shelter’d skirmish for the open raid, | |
| And take into their blood the draughts of sun, | 15 |
| That add a biting lustre to thy blade. | |
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| Sternest of all that serve the sun’s own moods, | |
| Yet most we love thee when thou dost unfold | |
| Thy majesty in storms that put to rout | |
| The hills and fields and woods; | 20 |
| When day, like a lost star, is whirled about, | |
| And the old earth rocks and reels, | |
| With the mad skies at its heels, | |
| O then our spirits grow strong as thine grows bold. | |
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| Yet art thou rich in days of perfect peace, | 25 |
| And sometimes gentle in thy moods as May; | |
| Thy mornings rise like mirrors that draw down | |
| Out of the heavens the crystal depths of day, | |
| Day that still gathers light with its decrease, | |
| Till hill, and field, and town, | 30 |
| In all the many-colour’d splendours shine, | |
| Wherewith the sun doth pave the path of his decline. | |
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| The silver flutes of Summer at thy breath | |
| Grew mute, and the last flower | |
| Took from thy lips the icy kiss of death; | 35 |
| The roving tides stood still when thou didst set | |
| Thy foot upon them in an iron hour; | |
| Thy hungry wolf-winds out of East and North | |
| Glutted themselves, and do not now forget | |
| The feast of plenty in the autumn bower, | 40 |
| Blaring thy martial music they go forth, | |
| Where long the heart of Summer hath lain dead, | |
| And the last song to Autumn’s ear was lost; | |
| A milder music hast thou too, instead. | |
| The many myriad sparkling bells of frost, | 45 |
| That ring their crisp chimes to the passing tread. | |
| And when the sun abandons thee to night | |
| Under the weaving spell of star and moon, | |
| The dews of thy white spirit are shed and spun | |
| Into frore flowers and foliage, steeped in light, | 50 |
| That are before the clear unshadow’d noon, | |
| Regather’d to the garden of the sun. | |
| They know not thee who cannot comprehend | |
| Thy spirit in all its moods of calm and stress, | |
| Not to what purpose all thy strivings tend, | 55 |
| For thou dost minister to the rounded year | |
| In things that lead to blessing and to bless; | |
| And they who doubt shall understand at length, | |
| Thy vestiture is woven of hope, not fear. | |
| And thy true gifts are life, and joy, and strength. | 60 |
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