The Winter Nosegay.

Now the winds of winter blow

Fiercely through the chilly air;

Now the fields are white with snow,

Can we find a posy there?

No, there cannot, all around,

A single blade of grass be found.

Nothing but the holly bright,

Spotted with its berries gay;

Lauristinus, red and white;

Or the ivy’s crooked spray;

With a sloe of darksome blue,

Where the ragged blackthorn grew.

Or the hip of shining red,

Where the wild rose used to grow,

Peeping out its scarlet head,

From beneath a cap of snow;

These are all that dare to stay

Through the cutting winter’s day.

a.t.