When the white wind whistles
Over the hard ground
And all but the twigs
Of the oak blow bare,
When a creeping numbness
Gathers close
And the mind’s slow musings
Shiver and stare —

Crawl under the covers
And cower down,
Let winter’s voices
Pound and heave:
There’s a time too sharp
For thought to face,
There’s a cold too bitter
Even for love.