O sweet and solitary woods, friends to my weary downcast thoughts, while in these troubled and imperfect days the north wind folds the earth and air in rugged frost;
On either hand your green and shadowy tresses seem, like mine own, ancient and white, now that your open glades in place of bright and crimson flowers bear ice and snow:
Musing I go in the brief misty light that is left me; my spirits and limbs are turned to ice:
But more than you I freeze without and within; for to me my winter brings a crueller wind, a longer night, and colder, scantier days.