Now golden days of autumn are no more. Down on the forest ruthless Winter frees— First with far rumblings, waxing to a roar— His shouting winds that riot thro’ the trees, Raging like savage seas. Bedraggled now the gown this garden wore; Lost are those evanescent gems she bore; Lost, half the melodies. A grey thrush, every morn hops round the door, His wise head cocked inquiringly aslant; Magpie and robin, these are shy no more, And every songster, as his fare grows scant, Becomes a mendicant. Small their demands upon the larder’s store On these dark, sodden days or mornings hoar, Cruel to bird and plant. A strange and ghostly silence came last night, After the wind’s wild clamour and the rain; And now, at dawn, a coverlet of white Swathes many a long, fantastic forest lane And unfamiliar plain. Beneath the burden spar and sapling slight Bow down, revealing many a vista bright In this once green domain. The silence shouts in this new, muffled world After the tempest’s nerve-destroying din . . . Here, like three pixies, impudently curled In a giant’s pallet, sheets up to each chin, Three pert violas grin . . . The forest is a lady richly pearled, Else a white penitent in pure robes furled, And newly cleansed of sin.