Winter

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Title:     Winter
Author: Robert Louis Stevenson [More Titles by Stevenson]

IN rigorous hours, when down the iron lane
The redbreast looks in vain
For hips and haws,
Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane
The silver pencil of the winter draws.

When all the snowy hill
And the bare woods are still;
When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs,
And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire,
Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs -
More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!

Saranac Lake.

[The end]
Robert Louis Stevenson's poem: Winter

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