Classic Poem

Now Nature rests from her luxuriant birth,
Again with snow the dreary hills are crown'd,
Mute are the groves, and Winter throws around
His chearless veil, and binds the barren earth:
We, who so late with scenes of rural mirth
Enraptur'd trod the flow'r-besprinkled ground,
And heard with carrols ev'ry vale resound,
How shall we seek again the lazy hearth?
Yet Winter has its charms: the solemn hours
To Contemplation's silent joys invite,
O'er soaring poet, or instructive sage:
Most happy he, whose soul exalted tow'rs
Above low joys, and tastes the pure delight,
That amply flows from Wisdom's sacred page.