Winter lies on the fields so cold and grey
That morning and noon are dim as the fall of day.
Colour is gone from the world, and the rustle of leaves,
And the song of the birds; but under the loaded eaves
Icicles drip and drip to the ground below,
Melting a line of holes in the floor of snow.
Shut out this desolation. Here indoors
Are bright, warm rooms. The fire of pine-logs roars:
In polished brass and blushing mirror flares
The hearth’s red gleam. Long sofas, deep soft chairs,
And books are here. Let snow mount to the sill,
Here we have made a summer no frost can kill.
And here, conserved in jars, is the wealth of June,—
Raspberry, strawberry, waiting the silver spoon;
Jelly of autumn brambles, gleaming pots
Of plums, greengages, tawny apricots
Steeped in clear syrups, and the crystal spoil
Of bees, the vintage of a five-months’ toil.
But, more than this, in cellared gloom are laid
Other and older vintages that swayed
In purple clusters on Burgundian plains,
On Lusitanian mountain-slopes or Spain’s
Swart vineyards, in whose generous nectar runs
The prisoned soul of long-forgotten suns.
Unlock the door, then; down the dark stone stair
Grope in the taper’s wavering light to where
The cobwebbed bottle slumbers; gently lift—
Gently as new-born babe—lest you should shift
The cloudy sediment; then thief-like slink
Upstairs again and in the pantry sink
Knock off the sealing-wax, then draw with care,
Decant, and set in a warm room to air.
Then shall we sit and sip in candle light
And let the storm roar out its heart all night.