XXXIII
How in the country pass this time?
Walking? The landscape tires the eye
In winter by its blank and dim
And naked uniformity.
On horseback gallop o’er the steppe!
Your steed, though rough-shod, cannot keep
His footing on the treacherous rime
And may fall headlong any time.
Alone beneath your rooftree stay
And read De Pradt or Walter Scott!
Keep your accounts! You’d rather not?
Then get mad drunk or wroth; the day
Will pass; the same to-morrow try—
You’ll spend your winter famously!