Winter
or the Song of the Wrens
By Lord Alfred Tennyson


The frost is here,
And fuel is dear,
And woods are sear,
And fires burn clear,
And frost is here
And has bitten the heel of the going year. 

Bite, frost, bite!
You roll up away from the light
The blue woodlouse and the plump doormouse,
And the bees are stilled, and the flies are killed.
And you bite far into the heart of the house,
But not into mine.

Bite, frost, bite!
The woods are all the searer,
The fuel is all the dearer,
The fires are all the clearer,
My spring is all the nearer,
You have bitten into the heart of the earth
But not into mine.

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