Poetry

I couldn't think of what to write and turned to those with greater gifts than mine to try to put into words winter in North Dakota.

The Farm Woman's Winter



Thomas Hardy

I
If seasons all were summers,
And leaves would never fall,
And hopping casement-comers
Were foodless not at all,

And fragile folk might be here
That white winds bid depart;
Then one I used to see here
Would warm my wasted heart!
II

One frail, who, bravely tilling
Long hours in gripping gusts,
Was mastered by their chilling,
And now his ploughshare rusts.
So savage winter catches
The breath of limber things,
And what I love he snatches,
And what I love not, brings.