James Gates Percival (1795–1856)

WINTER is now around me, and the snow

Has thrown its mantle over herb, tree, flower;

The icicle has tapestried the bower,

And in a crystal sheet the rivers flow;

And mustering from the north, at evening blow

The hollow winds, and through the starlit hour

Shake from the icy wood a rattling shower,

That tinkles on the glassy crust below;

And Morning rises in a saffron glow,

Pouring her splendor through the fretted grove,

In tints that round the heart enchantment throw,

Like what the Graces in their girdle wove;

And shining on the mountain’s frosted brow,

That o’er the gilded landscape looks afar,

Her kindling beams the virgin mantle strow

With drops of gold that twinkle like a star!