Winter, Old Style

Keen is the wind, Barren the land. A man could stand On a single stalk.

Cattle are lean, The stag is thin, All color wan On the frozen lake.

Idle the shield On an old man's shoulder. Halls are cold. I have a wound.

Where warriors go I cannot follow Through flying snow In this wild wind.

The trees are bowed In the bare wood; There is no shade In any vale.

The reeds are dry And a loud crying Howls outside The horse's stall.

The light is short. Sorrow and hurt Harry the heart With inward war.

So an old man Does what he can, Stares through the pane At night's black square.