In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane
The redbreast looks in vain
For hips and haws, Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane The silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill And the bare woods are still; When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs -- More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!
 
By Robert Louis Stevenson.