A Winter Call

A Winter Call
by J. B. Cressinger

Cold, cold the winter wind doth blow,
And thicker falls the feathered snow,
Covering the bleak and frozen ground
Whitening the prospect all around.

Chill, chill is hoary winter's breath
Touching all nature as with death,
Stripping the verdure from the trees,
Causing the waters hard to freeze.

No more, no more the notes are heard
Of babbling brook, or singing bird,
The lakes in icy fetters bound
No more give forth a requiem sound.

Hard, hard! the needy think their lot
Who by the prosperous are forgot;
The widows and the orphans poor
Who begging go from door to door.

Warm, warm now is the rich man's cot,
Though others freeze, he heeds it not;
Of clothes and food an ample store,
Yet nothing giveth to the poor.

Hark, hark! ye who do sumptuous fare
And to the poor give not a share,
The time may come when you will plead,
Then I'll not hear, the Lord hath said.

Come, come, now open with your door,
Give to the shivering, starving poor;
And for it you will richer be
In time and in eternity.