Our severest winter, commonly called the spring.

O Winter! ruler of the inverted year, . . . . I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening, know.

Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

She turned to the sunlight
    And shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbor:
    "Winter is dead.