Ah, bitter Winter turns upon his bed.
He, warmed by joy, had fled the cheery Spring,
Who traveled North upon some Nordic sled
As he'd not hear some eager warbler sing.
Ah, Winter, waking, soon shall travel South -
He, stiff and cold, would catch some wary bird,
Or steal the joy that filled the songster's mouth
With what preempts the poet's sweetest word.
But though he'd prove hell-bent but to destroy,
He'll tempt the jocund children e'en to play
Who'd soon surpass the mating warbler's joy
With laughter's warmth which makes the ice decay.
Then Winter, fleeing joy, and Arctic bound,
Would curse the tulips rising to astound.