Well, it comes again, the winter,
In a tempest, overnight,
Coming down hard as we’re sleeping,
Washing the forest with white.
Well, it rattles in the corners,
And bustles on the boughs,
And coats the drowsy dormers,
And crowns the placid cows;
Well, it comes on feet so silent
We only hear the wind;
We roll over, half-smiling,
And whisper to winter: “Come in.”
