Midwinter

By John Grosvenor Wilson

Icicles hang
Where Summer sang,
The north-winds clang
From frozen lands;
O'er hill and valley,
Down wind-swept alley,
The storm-clouds sally
In whirling bands.

Farm-house and field,
Alike concealed,
Beneath the shield
Of Winter lie;
The world, snow-sheeted,
As one defeated,
A queen unseated,
Makes mournful cry.

The short day dies,
No stars arise
In serried skies
That shake with snow,
The rough wind whistles
And hurls his missiles
Where keen ice bristles
On rocks below.

On rocks that reach
Above the beach,
Where sit and screech
The gulls at night,
By waves foam-fretted,
With sea-weed netted,
Their sharp teeth whetted
For dark sea-fight.

But winds may roll
O'er sound and shoal,
And cheek by jowl
The storm-kings ride,
Men meet together,
Despite the weather,
Though fierce flakes feather
The roaring tide.

In happy homes,
When darkness gloams,
The beaker foams,
The feast is laid,
Bright fires are lighted,
Sweet troths are plighted,
Fond hearts united
Of youth and maid.

And on lone heights
The beacon-lights
Burn bright o' nights
For ships at sea,
Though warring Winter
May smite and splinter,
Or ice-peaks glint, or
The snows fall free.