Then came old January, wrapped wellIn many weeds to keep the cold away;Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell,And blow his nayles to warm them if he may;For they were numb'd with holding all the dayAn hatchet keene, with which he felled wood,And from the trees did lop the needlesse spray;Upon a huge great earth-pot steane he stood,From whose wide mouth there flowed forth the Romane flood.—Spenser.
Then came old January, wrapped wellIn many weeds to keep the cold away;Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell,And blow his nayles to warm them if he may;For they were numb'd with holding all the dayAn hatchet keene, with which he felled wood,And from the trees did lop the needlesse spray;Upon a huge great earth-pot steane he stood,From whose wide mouth there flowed forth the Romane flood.—Spenser.
Then came old January, wrapped well
In many weeds to keep the cold away;
Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell,
And blow his nayles to warm them if he may;
For they were numb'd with holding all the day
An hatchet keene, with which he felled wood,
And from the trees did lop the needlesse spray;
Upon a huge great earth-pot steane he stood,
From whose wide mouth there flowed forth the Romane flood.
—Spenser.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er the fields,Seems nowhere to alight; the whited airHides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.The sled and traveler stopp'd, the courier's feetDelay'd, all friends shut out, the house-mates sitAround the radiant fire-place, inclosedIn a tumultuous privacy of storm.—Emerson.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er the fields,Seems nowhere to alight; the whited airHides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.The sled and traveler stopp'd, the courier's feetDelay'd, all friends shut out, the house-mates sitAround the radiant fire-place, inclosedIn a tumultuous privacy of storm.—Emerson.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveler stopp'd, the courier's feet
Delay'd, all friends shut out, the house-mates sit
Around the radiant fire-place, inclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
—Emerson.