Poem by Henry Alford

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.

1. Sacred to the Memory of E. S.
2. 1846
3. Sunset at Burton Pynsent, Somerset
4. I Had the Sweetest Dream but Yesternight
5. Written at Ampton, Suffolk, January, 1838

Archibald Lampman Winter ("The long days came and went; the riotous bees")

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