Who does not love the Winter,
When all on earth below,
The houses, streams, the trees, and rocks,
Are covered o’er with snow—
When all is fair which once was bare,
And all is bright and gay,
When down the hillside rush the sleds,
Nor stop till far away?
And then the noise of all the boys,
When snow-balls fly around—
The snow-king in the meadow-field,
With icy jewels crowned—
And sparkling as the purest gold,
The scepter in his hand,
While icy courtiers, grim and still,
Await his high command.
And then when evening closes in
Around the household hearth,
We love to sit while jokes pass round,
And all is joy and mirth.
And then recount with ready tongues
The mishaps of the day,
Of plunges in the deep snow-drifts
When at our joyous play.
And though the Spring may boast its flowers,
And all its green-clad trees;
Though Summer, with its healthy showers,
Brings many a cooling breeze;
And though in Autumn with the crops
Of grain and fruit we’re blest,
Yet still I can not help but say,
I love the Winter best.
S. W.