5. WINTER.
Edgar Alfred Bowring translation
The cold may burn us sadly Like fire, and mortals hurry Amidst the snowdrift madly, With still-increasing flurry. O winter stern and chilly, When frozen are our noses, And piano-strumming silly Our ears so discomposes! I like the summer only When in the wood I’m roving With my own griefs all-lonely, And scanning verses loving.