Page 19 - Poetry-Country

Is done; I’m ready now my fate for,
And I would fain
A gust of wind exchange my state for,
Or drift of rain.

— Roger Riordan (Century Magazine, 1883)

December-Winter

This is winter, this is winter,
How the wind about us blows
And becomes the rosy tinter
Of our ears, and cheeks, and nose!

Hear the wind go wildly scooting
O’er the lone and leafless bog;
Hear outside the mournful tooting
Of the daily-booted dog.

Hear the fagots glowing ruddy
Shoot their sparks upon the floor;
Hear the yell come from the study:
“Shut the door, oh, shut the door!”

See the coaster swiftly riding
Down the hillside on his sled,
While the ped. is madly sliding
O’er the side-walk on his head.

See the pretty snow bird hopping
Round the kitchen door elate;
See the urchin dodge the chopping
Of the wood to go and skate.

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