Written During A Severe Winter. Why, Trembling, Silent, Wand'rer! Why, From Me And Pity Do You Fly? Your Little Heart Against Your Plumes Beats Hard - Ah! Dreary Are These Glooms! Famine Has Chok'D The Note Of Joy That Charm'D The Roving Shepherd-Boy. Why, Wand'rer, Do You Look So Shy? And Why, When I Approach You, Fly? The Crumbs Which At Your Feet I Strew Are Only Meant To Nourish You; They Are Not Thrown With Base Decoy, To Rob You Of One Hour Of Joy. Come, Follow To My Silent Mill, That Stands Beneath Yon Snow-Clad Hill; There Will I House Your Trembling Form, There Shall Your Shiv'Ring Breast Be Warm: And, When Your Little Heart Grows Strong, I'll Ask You For Your Simple Song; And, When You Will Not Tarry More, Open Shall Be My Wicket-Door; And Freely, When You Chirp "Adieu," I'll Wish You Well, Sweet Warbler! Too; I'll Wish You Many A Summer-Hour On Top Of Tree, Or Abbey-Tow'R. When Spring Her Wasted Form Retrieves, And Gives Your Little Roof Its Leaves, May You (A Happy Lover) Find A Kindred Partner To Your Mind: And When, Amid The Tangled Spray, The Sun Shall Shoot A Parting Ray, May All Within Your Mossy Nest Be Safe, Be Merry, And Be Blest.