Explore "Verses and Sonnets" by Hilaire Belloc on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Look, how those steep woods on the mountain's face / Burn, burn against the sunset; now the cold / Invades our very noon: the year's grown old, / Mornings are dark, and evenings come apace. / The vines below have lost their purple grace, / And in Forrèze the white wrack backward rolled, / Hangs to the hills tempestuous, fold on fold, / And moaning gusts make desolate all the place.
Mine host the month, at thy good hostelry, / Tired limbs I'll stretch and steaming beast I'll tether; / Pile on great logs with Gascon hand and free, / And pour the Gascon stuff that laughs at weather; / Swell your tough lungs, north wind, no whit care we, / Singing old songs and drinking wine together.