The world is white, the snowy skies
Are ashen grey to all the north;
Through dolorous yews the cold wind sighs,
The crescent moon alone looks forth.
An amber bar streaks western clouds,
Low down the vale the mist is blue;
December woods wear wetted shrouds
Of withered twigs which owls look through.
The pines bend low in shadowed walk,
The doleful park is weird and still,
Five purple peacocks mournfully stalk
Around the house and terraced hill.
A pool lies hid within the wood,
Fringed here and there with yellow grass;
The tawny pheasant's hungry brood
Crouch low when eager sportsment pass.
Far down the wold the wattled sheep
Look dark and small on dazzling snow;
The dusky ravens croak and creep
O'er grassy tracts in even row.
The skies are cold, so cold the white
Hard light of snow and ashen grey,
I crave and sigh for the delight
Of west winds on a summer day!
[This is number XI. of Jane Paxton Smieton's Poems and Ballads]