<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419542" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Winter's Come</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sweet chestnuts brown like soling leather turn;<br>The larch trees, like the colour of the Sun;<br>That paled sky in the Autumn seemed to burn,<br>What a strange scene before us now does run--<br>Red, brown, and yellow, russet, black, and dun;<br>White thorn, wild cherry, and the poplar bare;<br>The sycamore all withered in the sun.<br>No leaves are now upon the birch tree there:<br>All now is stript to the cold wintry air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">See, not one tree but what has lost its leaves--<br>And yet the landscape wears a pleasing hue.<br>The winter chill on his cold bed receives<br>Foliage which once hung oer the waters blue.<br>Naked and bare the leafless trees repose.<br>Blue-headed titmouse now seeks maggots rare,<br>Sluggish and dull the leaf-strewn river flows;<br>That is not green, which was so through the year<br>Dark chill November draweth to a close.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tis Winter, and I love to read indoors,<br>When the Moon hangs her crescent up on high;<br>While on the window shutters the wind roars,<br>And storms like furies pass remorseless by.<br>How pleasant on a feather bed to lie,<br>Or, sitting by the fire, in fancy soar<br>With Dante or with Milton to regions high,<br>Or read fresh volumes we've not seen before,<br>Or oer old Burton's Melancholy pore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Clare">John Clare</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419542" data-title="The Winter's Come de John Clare" data-description="Sweet chestnuts brown like soling leather turn; The larch trees, like the colour of the Sun; That paled sky in the Autumn seemed to burn, What a strange scene before us now does run-- Red, brown, and yellow, russet, black, and dun; White thorn, wi..."></div> </div> </div>

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