O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:
The north is thine; there hast thou build thy dark,
Deep-founded read more

O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:
The north is thine; there hast thou build thy dark,
Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs,
Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will read more

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems read more

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Every Fern is tucked and set,
'Neath coverlet,
Downy and soft and warm.

Every Fern is tucked and set,
'Neath coverlet,
Downy and soft and warm.

The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in
winter; the fleshy, in summer. I read more

The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in
winter; the fleshy, in summer. I should say winter had given the
bone and sinew to literature, summer the tissues and the blood.

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale
and shabby, old and sullen.

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale
and shabby, old and sullen.

When now, unsparing as the scourge of war,
Blasts follow blasts and groves dismantled roar;
Around their read more

When now, unsparing as the scourge of war,
Blasts follow blasts and groves dismantled roar;
Around their home the storm-pinched cattle lows,
No nourishment in frozen pasture grows;
Yet frozen pastures every morn resound
With fair abundance thund'ring to the ground.

Winter is icumen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how read more

Winter is icumen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.

And for the season it was winter, and they that know the winters
of that country know them to read more

And for the season it was winter, and they that know the winters
of that country know them to be sharp and violent, and subject to
cruel and fierce storms. . . . For summer being done, all things
stand upon them with a weather-beaten face, and the whole
country, full of woods and thickets, represented a wild and
savage hue.