In my winter corner musing, Fancy thus her finger using, Cunning finger, dipt in glooms, Dews of light, and coloured blooms, Gives me, round her pictured hall, Touches of the seasons all. Tricksy Fancy, well she knows What clouds to every scene she owes, And shapes and tints them as she wills; Rose-skirted on the mountains hoary, Torn to shreds of hurrying rack, Ranged in the north and battlemented black, White flock of zenith, or with stormy glory Tumbling tumultuous o'er the western hills.