Robert Louis Stevenson

Winter

In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane
The redbreast looks in vain
For hips and haws,
Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane
The silver pencil of the winter draws.
 
When all the snowy hill
And the bare woods are still;
When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs,
And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire,
Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs —
More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!

From Songs of Travel

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Autres oeuvres par Robert Louis Stevenson...



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