Hold your hands to the blaze; <br />Winter is here <br />With the short cold days, <br />Bleak, keen and drear. <br />Was there ever a day <br />With hawthorn along the way <br />Where you wandered in mild mid-May <br />With your dear? <br /> <br />That was when you were young <br />And the world was gold; <br />Now all the songs are sung, <br />The tales all told. <br />You shiver now by the fire <br />Where the last red sparks expire; <br />Dead are delight and desire: <br />You are old.<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-151/
