How small a tooth hath mined the season’s heart! How cold a touch hath set the wood on fire, Until it blazes like a costly pyre Built for some Ganges emperor, old and swart, Soul-sped on clouds of incense! Whose the art That webs the streams, each morn, with silver wire, Delicate as the tension of a lyre,— Whose falchion pries the chestnut-bur apart? It is the Frost, a rude and Gothic sprite, Who doth unbuild the Summer’s palaced wealth, And puts her dear loves all to sword or flight; Yet in the hushed, unmindful winter’s night The spoiler builds again with jealous stealth, And sets a mimic garden, cold and bright.
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Sub Title:
III. The Seasons