Classic Poem

TO WINTER.

Let happy mortals love the gaudy blooms
That deck the bosom of the laughing Spring,
And, fann'd by her warm breath, profusely fling
To the young gale their delicate perfumes; —
Stern, rugged Winter, thy congenial glooms
A mournful pleasure to that bosom bring,
Where pale Despondence spreads her lurid wing,
Which Fate severe to ceaseless sorrow dooms.
It loves, than all the vernal pride far more,
Thy storms wild-howling through the forest bare;
Thy driving snows the plains that mantle o'er;
Thy chilling mists, that dim the burden'd air:
Then Nature seems her sorrows to deplore,
And sympathetic feel the soul's despair.