Henry Alford

Sonnet XXXVII. To Winter. Written At Ampton, Suffolk.

Welcome, stern Winter, though thy brows are bound With no fresh flowers, and ditties none thou hast But the wild music of the sweeping blast; Welcome this chilly wind, that snatches round The brown leaves in quaint eddies; we have long Panted in wearying heat; skies always bright, And dull return of never--clouded light, Sort not with hearts that gather food for song. Rather, dear Winter, I would forth with thee, Watching thee disattire the earth; and roam On the bleak heaths that stretch about my home, Till round the flat horizon I can see The purple frost--belt; then to fireside--chair, And sweetest labour of poetic care.