Let other love the vernal year,
When brighter verdure decks the grove,
When early flowers the prospect cheer
The season sweet of hope and love
Let others sing of summer’s reign
When clustering fruits the branches bend
Or autumn’s stores that gild the plain
When groves a yellower umbrage lend.
Yet winter still to me is dear,
The sweetest season of the year.
Though cold the northern gale may blow
And ceaseless fall the driving rain
The leafless trees be topped with snow,
Or raging rivers flood the plain
Tho’ silent are the feathered choir
And others at the change may mourn
I’ll string anew my idle lyre
And hail bleak winter thy return
For winter still to me is dear,
The sweetest season of the year.
For then around the Attic Chest,
Its friends again assembled move,
And in the tuneful band confessed,
Appears the beauteous maid I love
And when her smiles, her speaking eye,
Her wanderer welcome home again
Scarce can my breast conceal its joy
And scarce its ardent love restrain.
Oh winter then to me is dear,
The sweetest season of the year.
When I her strains enraptured hear
And all admire her sprightly lays
And scarce my faltering tongue can dare
To pay her tribute meet of praise
Or when with her the dance I lead
Her graceful form enraptured view,
Her sprightly mien, her airy tread,
Her steps to art and nature true
Oh winter then to me is dear,
The sweetest season of the year.
Donald