The woods how gloomy in a winter’s morn! The crows and ravens even cease to croak, The little birds sit chittering on the thorn, The pies scarce chatter when they leave the oak, Startled from slumber by the woodman’s stroke; The milk-maid’s song is drown’d in gloomy care, And while the village chimneys curl their smoke, She milks, and blows, and hastens to be there; And nature all seems sad, and dying in despair. The quirking rabbit scarcely leaves her hole, But rolls in torpid slumbers all the day; The fox is loth to ’gin a long patrol, And scouts the woods, content with meaner prey; The hare so frisking, timid once and gay, ’Hind the dead thistle hurkles from the view, Nor scarce is scar’d though in the traveller’s way, Though waffling curs and shepherd-dogs pursue: So winter’s ragged power affects all nature through. What different changes winter’s frowns supply: The clown no more a loitering hour beguiles, Nor gaping tracks the clouds along the sky, As when buds blossom, and the warm sun smiles, And “Lawrence wages bids” on hills and stiles; Banks, stiles, and flowers, and skies, no longer charm; Deep drifting snow each summer-seat defiles; With hasty blundering step and folded arm He glad the stable seeks, his frost-nip nose to warm. The shepherd haunts no more his spreading oak, Nor on the sloping pond-head lies at lair; The arbour he once wattled up is broke, And left unworthy of his future care; The ragged plundering stickers have been there, And pilfer’d it away; he passes by His summer dwelling, desolate and bare, And ne’er so much as turns a conscious eye, But gladly seeks his fire, and shuns th’ inclement sky. The scene is cloth’d in snow from morn till night, The woodman’s loth his chilly tools to seize; The crows unroosting as he comes in sight Shake down the feathery burden from the trees; To look at things around he’s fit to freeze: Scar’d from her perch the fluttering pheasant flies: His hat and doublet whiten by degrees, He quakes, looks round, and pats his hands and sighs, And wishes to himself that the warm sun would rise. The robin, tamest of the feather’d race, Soon as he hears the woodman’s sounding chops, With ruddy bosom and a simple face Around his old companion fearless hops, And there for hours in pleas’d attention stops: The woodman’s heart is tender and humane And at his meals he many a crumble drops. Thanks to thy generous feelings, gentle swain; And what thy pity gives, shall not be given in vain.