Winter is fallen early br On the house of Stare; br Birds in reverberating flocks br Haunt its ancestral box; br Bright are the plenteous berries br In clusters in the air. br br br Still is the fountain’s music, br The dark pool icy still, br Whereupon a small and sanguine sun br Floats in a mirror on, br Into a West of crimson, br From a South of daffodil. br br br ’Tis strange to see young children br In such a wintry house; br Like rabbits’ on the frozen snow br Their tell-tale footprints go; br Their laughter rings like timbrels br ’Neath evening ominous: br br br Their small and heightened faces br Like wine-red winter buds; br Their frolic bodies gentle as br Flakes in the air that pass, br Frail as the twirling petal br From the briar of the woods. br br br Above them silence lours, br Still as an arctic sea; br Light fails; night falls; the wintry moon br Glitters; the crocus soon br Will open grey and distracted br On earth’s austerity: br br br Thick mystery, wild peril, br Law like an iron rod:— br Yet sport they on in Spring’s attire, br Each with his tiny fire br Blown to a core of ardour br By the awful breath of God.