I

If seasons all were summers,

   And leaves would never fall,

And hopping casement-comers

   Were foodless not at all,

And fragile folk might be here

   That white winds bid depart;

Then one I used to see here

   Would warm my wasted heart!

II

One frail, who, bravely tilling

   Long hours in gripping gusts,

Was mastered by their chilling,

   And now his ploughshare rusts.

So savage winter catches

   The breath of limber things,

And what I love he snatches,

   And what I love not, brings.