Winter Morning

From “The Winter Morning Walk:” “The Task,” Bk. V. ’T IS the morning, and the sun with ruddy orb Ascending fires the horizon; while the clouds, That crowd away before the driving wind, More ardent as the disc emerges more, Resembles most some city in a blaze, Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, And, tingeing all with his own rosy hue, From every herb and every spiry blade Stretches a length of shadow o’er the field.* * * * * The verdure of the plain lies buried deep Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents, And coarser grass, upspearing o’er the rest, Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad, And, fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder; not, like hungering man, Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek, And patient of the slow-paced swain’s delay.* * * * * Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned The cheerful haunts of men,—to wield the axe And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, From morn to eve his solitary task. Shaggy and lean and shrewd with pointed ears, And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, His dog attends him. Close behind his heel Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy.* * * * * Now from the roost, or from the neighboring pale, Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, Come trooping at the housewife’s well-known call The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing, And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, Conscious and fearful of too deep a plunge. The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye The scattered grain, and, thievishly resolved To escape the impending famine, often scared As oft return, a pert voracious kind. Clean riddance quickly made, one only care Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned To sad necessity, the cock foregoes His wonted strut, and, wading at their head With well-considered steps, seems to resent His altered gait and stateliness retrenched. How find the myriads, that in summer cheer The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, Due sustenance, or where subsist they now? Earth yields them naught; the imprisoned worm is safe Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs Lie covered close; and berry-bearing thorns, That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose), Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. The long protracted vigor of the year Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, As instinct prompts; self-buried ere they die.