Clare’s poem begins with a patient survey of the winter woods—chestnuts brown like leather, larches golden, and every tree, from white thorn to poplar, bare to the cold. He notes a ‘pleasing hue’ even in the red, brown, yellow, and dun, as a blue titmouse hunts for maggots and the leaf-strewn river runs sluggishly. The naked branches don’t feel sad; they’re part of a scene the speaker accepts with quiet appreciation. Then he moves indoors. With the moon hung high and wind howling at the shutters, he luxuriates in a feather bed or sits by the fire, letting his mind roam with Dante, Milton, or old Burton. The harsh weather becomes a gift—it sharpens the warmth and makes reading feel like a deep, secret pleasure.
The Winter's Come — Summary
Sweet chestnuts brown like soling leather turn; The larch trees, like the colour of the Sun; That paled sky in the Autumn seemed to burn, What a strange scene before us now does run-- Red, brown, and yellow, russet, black, and dun; White thorn, wild cherry, and the poplar bare; The sycamore all withered in the sun. No leaves are now upon the birch tree there: All now is stript to the cold wintry air.
See, not one tree but what has lost its leaves-- And yet the landscape wears a pleasing hue. The winter chill on his cold bed receives Foliage which once hung oer the waters blue. Naked and bare the leafless trees repose. Blue-headed titmouse now seeks maggots rare, Sluggish and dull the leaf-strewn river flows; That is not green, which was so through the year Dark chill November draweth to a close.
Tis Winter, and I love to read indoors, When the Moon hangs her crescent up on high; While on the window shutters the wind roars, And storms like furies pass remorseless by. How pleasant on a feather bed to lie, Or, sitting by the fire, in fancy soar With Dante or with Milton to regions high, Or read fresh volumes we've not seen before, Or oer old Burton's Melancholy pore.