A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee, <br />Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey <br />As the long moss upon the apple-tree; <br />Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose, <br />Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way <br />Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. <br />They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth, <br />Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair, <br />Watching the children at their Christmas mirth; <br />Or circled by them as thy lips declare <br />Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, <br />Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, <br />Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire, <br />Or taste the old October brown and bright.<br /><br />Robert Southey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-3/
