'Tis winter, drear winter, and cold the winds blow,
The ground is all cover'd with ice and with snow,
The trees are all gemm'd with a crystalline sheen,
No birdling or blossom are now to be seen.

The landscape is wearing a mantle of white,
Its verdure lies wither'd and hidden from sight,
Rude Borean blasts bleakly blow o'er the hills,
'Till the life-current, coursing, his icy-breath chills.

The rills in their ice-fetters firmly are bound
As the frost-spirit breathes o'er the face of the ground
The icicles pendant hang over the eaves,
And the wind whirls in eddies the rustling leaves.

It shrieks through the casement and in at the door-
All through the long night hear it fitfully roar,
The mitre ethereal silently flies
So keen and so cutting through storm-troubled skies.

The dark leaden clouds dim the light of the sun,
And the dull dreary hours drone slothfully on,
Euroclydon forges the cold biting sleet,
And the snow-drifts he piles at the traveler's feet.

The wealthy, at ease in their mansions so warm,
Heed not the rude blast of the pitiless storm-
The loud-roaring tempest, the elements din,
Serve only to heighten their comforts within.

The poor, in their hovels, feel keenly the blast,
And shudder and shake as the storm-sprite goes past;
Oh! pity the poor, in their lowly estate,
And turn them not empty away from your gate.