On a bleak day, the first time a fire was lighted in my room for the winter.
Go, get thee gone ! tis not the summer coming,
But my first fire, the winter's harbinger,
Which from thy crevice warm has sent thee roaming
On the chill air thy little wing to stir.
Yet stay, I should be loath to see thee wander
Forth to the gale, to face the surly blast,
Around my chair in playful flight meander,
But seek thy winter home again at last—
Yet I dislike thy race,—nor them alone,
But buzzing impudence among my own.

Still be my winter guest, till spring returning,
Shall bring the balmy Zephyrs back again ;
Then spread thy pinion to the first fair morning
And humming wander o'er the flowery plain.
Here fold thy fragile wing, and fix thy hermitage
Where the bright blaze my cheerful cottage warms,
Till the keen 'biting north' has spent its rage.
Lone, homeless pilgrim in a world of storms,
I pity him who could not pity thee,
I scorn the man who'd crush thee wantonly.