Here is a sonnet by Robert Southey (1774-1843) appropriate to this weather.

A wrinkled crabbèd man they picture thee,

Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey

as the long moss upon the apple-tree;

blue-lipped, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose,

close muffled up, and on thy dreary way

plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.

They should have drawn thee by the high-heaped hearth,

Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair,

watching the children at their Christmas mirth;

or circled by them as thy lips declare

some merry jest, or tale of murder dire,

or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,

pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire,

or taste the old October brown and bright.

Interestingly, he puts the volta on the seventh line, instead of the ninth as is more traditional.  "The old October" is winter ale.