Alfred Lord Tennyson


The frost is here,

And fuel is dear,

And woods are sear,

And fires burn clear,

And frost is here

And has bitten the heel of the going year.

Bite, frost, bite!

You roll up away from the light

The blue woodlouse and the plump dor-mouse,

And the bees are still'd, and the flies are kill'd,

And you bite far into the heart of the house,

But not into mine.

Bite, frost, bite!

The woods are all the searer,

The fuel is all the dearer,

The fires are all the clearer,

My spring is all the nearer,

You have bitten into the heart of the earth,

But not into mine.