Winter by Frances Anne Kemble

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

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