Sonnet Iv Poem by Robert Anderson

WRITTEN IN WINTER.

Chill blows the raging blast across the plain,
And sickly Phoebus scarce a ray sends forth;
Keen Winter now steals from the angry north,
And from the meadow drives the shepherd swain,
Who, tempest--beaten, in his snow--clad cot,
Listens with horror to the howling wind;
Yet calm Contentment cheers his humble lot--
Contentment known but to the virtuous mind.
Tho' now no flow'rets deck yon brambl'd glade,
Where sweet the blackbird sung his evening lay;
Tho' leafless now the oak that form'd a shade
To rustic lovers at the close of day;
Yet Winter's angry howl and dark'ning gloom
Sad Sorrow soothes more than gay Summer's bloom.