I saw him on his throne, far in the north, <br />Him ye call Winter, picturing him ever <br />An aged man, whose frame, with palsied shiver, <br />Bends o'er the fiery element, his foe. <br />But he I saw was a young god, whose brow <br />Was crowned with jagged icicles, and forth <br />From his keen spirit-like eyes there shone a light, <br />Broad, glaring, and intensely cold and bright. <br />His breath, like sharp-edged arrows, pierced the air; <br />The naked earth crouched shuddering at his feet; <br />His finger on all murmuring waters sweet <br />Lay icily,—motion nor sound was there; <br />Nature seemed frozen—dead; and still and slow <br />A winding-sheet fell o'er her features fair, <br />Flaky and white, from his wide wings of snow.<br /><br />Frances Anne Kemble<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-167/
