In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane The redbreast looks in vain For hips and haws, Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane The silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill And the bare woods are still; When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs -- More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PICKING AND CHOOSING by MARIANNE MOORE CHILDREN by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR YARROW UNVISITED by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH DRINKING ODE by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE WRITTEN IN IRELAND by MARY (CUMBERLAND) ALCOCK THE PROFESSION OF FLATTERY by ANTIPHANES THE ARGONAUTS (ARGONATUICA): MEDEA BETRAYED by APOLLONIUS RHODIUS |