When Winter fringes every bough
⁠With his fantastic wreath,
And puts the seal of silence now
⁠Upon the leaves beneath;

When every stream in its pent-house
⁠Goes gurgling on its way,
And in his gallery the mouse
⁠Nibbleth the meadow hay;

Methinks the summer still is nigh,
⁠And lurketh underneath,
As that same meadow-mouse doth lie
⁠Snug in that last year's heath.

​And if perchance the chicadee
⁠Lisp a faint note anon,
The snow is summer's canopy,
⁠Which she herself put on.

Fair blossoms deck the cheerful trees,
⁠And dazzling fruits depend;
The north wind sighs a summer breeze,
⁠The nipping frosts to fend,

Bringing glad tidings unto me,
⁠The while I stand all ear,
Of a serene eternity,
⁠Which need not winter fear.

Out on the silent pond straightway
⁠The restless ice doth crack,
​And pond-sprites merry gambols play
⁠Amid the deafening rack.

Eager I hasten to the vale,
⁠As if I heard brave news,
How Nature held high festival,
⁠Which it were hard to lose.

I gambol with my neighbor ice,
⁠And sympathising quake,
As each new crack darts in a trice
⁠Across the gladsome lake.

One with the cricket in the ground,
⁠And fagot on the hearth,
Resounds the rare domestic sound
⁠Along the forest path.