Winter

Had I the wondrous magic to invest Ideal forms in colour, I would paint Thee, winter, first, by an ideal saint Deep in his beads: on his bare ribs should rest A cross of lichened boughs: and duly pressed Each morn by horny knees, one for each bone, There should be two round hollows in the stone, Whither his bent limbs should be half addressed. And in the entry of the holy cave Where the same saint should sit, a laughing boy, Naked, and all aglow with play and joy, Should peer full slily on that father grave, In the full blessedness of childhood's morn, And laugh his crusty solitude to scorn.