Winter hath bound the brooks in icy chains; The bee that murmured in the cowslip bell Now feasts securely in his honied cell; Silence is on the woods and on the plains, And darkening clouds and desolating rains Have marred your forest fountain's quiet spell; Yet, though retired from these awhile ye dwell, Your hearts' best hoard of poesy remains. The sports of childhood, the exhaustless store Of home-born thoughts and feelings dear to each, Converse, or silence eloquent as speech; History's rich page, tradition's richer lore, Of tale and legend prized in days of yore;— These, worthy of the Muse, are in your reach.
