XXXIII

2 0 00

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!