I

If seasons all were summers,
       &nbsp And leaves would never fall,
And hopping casement-comers
       &nbsp Were foodless not at all,
And fragile folk might be here
       &nbsp That white winds bid depart;
Then one I used to see here
       &nbsp Would warm my wasted heart!

II

One frail, who, bravely tilling
       &nbsp Long hours in gripping gusts,
Was mastered by their chilling,
       &nbsp And now his ploughshare rusts.
So savage winter catches
       &nbsp The breath of limber things,
And what I love he snatches,
       &nbsp And what I love not, brings.