Winter's Death

     Winter, the tough old jarl, is hard to die;
          His parting breath smites April’s downy cheek
          Stooping to find her violets, that, too weak
To push the dead leaves from their bosoms, try
To steal some glimpses of a softening sky
     Between the tatters of his robe, though bleak
     That latest gasp, ‘tis important to wreak
Hus dying hate on Spring’s new kingdom nigh.
Along the nor’ward slopes & sunless vales
     Cling scattered fragments of his ermine, torn
By shafts of Phoebus,—the thin shreds he trails
     After his sullen flight, till, overborne, 
He sinks into his hyperborean tomb,
And all the spring-kissed earth laughs suddenly into bloom!