Edith Nesbit

Winter

   HOLD your hands to the blaze;
      Winter is here
   With the short cold days,
      Bleak, keen and drear.
   Was there ever a day
   With hawthorn along the way
   Where you wandered in mild mid-May
      With your dear?

   That was when you were young
      And the world was gold;
   Now all the songs are sung,
      The tales all told.
   You shiver now by the fire
   Where the last red sparks expire;
   Dead are delight and desire:
      You are old.