On a biting winter day, icicles hang, Dick the shepherd blows on his numb fingers, and milk comes frozen home in the pail. The roads are foul, the blood feels nipped, and everyone is coughing—Marian’s nose is red and raw, the parson’s sermon is drowned out. Birds sit brooding in the snow, and roasted crab apples hiss in the bowl. Through it all, a staring owl pipes up with its “tu-whit, tu-who,” and the speaker calls it a merry note. Inside, greasy Joan is keeling the pot—stirring a steaming, likely simple, meal. There’s no romanticizing here: winter is harsh and uncomfortable. But the poem finds a stubborn, wry cheerfulness in the owl’s persistent call and the promise of warmth by the fire. The mood is earthy and deeply human—a clear-eyed acceptance of cold’s bite alongside small, homely comforts.
Winter — Summary
When icicles hang by the wall And Dick the shepherd blows his nail And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When Blood is nipped and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.