January

I heap the drifts against the door.
Close pent I keep the patient flocks: 
Because of me 
Goes free across the frosty moor 
The little red fox. 

Where now my snows stand hard and high 
Violets will purple all the way; 
But now men see 
Only my presage red or gray 
Of a stormy day. 

My path is strewn with tapestry 
Of naked branches blue on white: 
I heap the snowdrifts, but I grow 
The winter aconite to show 
My heavy hand can yet be light. 

My fairest flowers are in the sky. 
Wild red at morn. No damask rose 
More redly blows. 
Against my clear blue match who can 
June's gentian. 

I heap the drifts against the door, 
I bid you let in sunlight o'er 
The dreams of yester-year. 
I bid your youth renew, rejoice 
Through all the year with a strenuous voice; 
Rejoice, and have no fear.