Southey starts with the familiar, grim portrait of winter — a “wrinkled crabbed” old man with an icy nose and grey beard, trudging miserably through sleet. But he immediately pushes against that picture, saying we’ve got it wrong. Instead, he insists, winter should be imagined seated by a roaring fire in a big armchair, surrounded by children laughing at Christmas games or leaning in close for a scary story. The speaker’s tone feels both playful and insistent, as if he’s gently correcting an old mistake. The mood shifts from harsh outdoor cold to something deeply warm and alive: the crackle of the hearth, the shared warmth of faces, a mug of dark ale. It’s a celebration of winter’s indoor pleasures — storytelling, mirth, and the comfort that only comes when the weather outside drives everyone together.
Winter — Summary
A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee, Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey As the long moss upon the apple-tree; Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose, Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth, Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth; Or circled by them as thy lips declare Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire, Or taste the old October brown and bright.