Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | February 13, 2009


by Frances Anne Kemble (1809 – 1893).




I saw him on his throne, far in the north,

    Him ye call Winter, picturing him ever

    An aged man, whose frame, with palsied shiver,

    Bends o’er the fiery element, his foe.

    But he I saw was a young god, whose brow                                  5

    Was crowned with jagged icicles, and forth

    From his keen spirit-like eyes there shone a light,

    Broad, glaring, and intensely cold and bright.

    His breath, like sharp-edged arrows, pierced the air;

      The naked earth crouched shuddering at his feet;                  10

      His finger on all murmuring waters sweet

      Lay icily,—motion nor sound was there;

      Nature seemed frozen—dead; and still and slow

      A winding-sheet fell o’er her features fair,

      Flaky and white, from his wide wings of snow.                        15



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