A window on a winter landscape. Looking in or looking out are equally bleak. Something tells me I will never see it in the spring. But don't we always feel the same in the middle of winter?

I console myself with a bit of humorous doggerel, "Spring is sprung, the grass is riz, I wonder where the birdies iz? The boid is on the wing, but that's absoid, the wing is on the boid." Which presumably is a response to:

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring

The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:

The Bird of Time has but a little way

To fly -- and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

Omar Khayyam (or Edward Fitzgerald anyway) offers us a serious face, but he'll never live down that image of the "bird on the wing". Flinging garments of repentance is rather good too.