Sonnets XXXVII: To Winter. Written at Ampton, Suffolk

Welcome, stern Winter, though thy brows are bound
With no fresh flowers, and ditties none thou hast
But the wild music of the sweeping blast;
Welcome this chilly wind that snatches round
The brown leaves in quaint eddies; we have long
Panted in wearying heat; skies always bright,
And dull return of never-clouded light,
Sort not with hearts that gather food for song.
Rather, dear Winter, I would forth with thee,
Watching thee disattire the earth; and roam
On the bleak heaths that stretch about my home,
Till round the flat horizon I can see
The purple frost-belt; then to fireside-chair,
And sweetest labor of poetic care.