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,...
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The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, |
[Written in the Tower, the night before his probably unjust execution for treason] MY prime of youth is but a frost of cares, |
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder ’s in the shock, |
How small a tooth hath mined the season’s heart! |
As Frost is best conceived |
Did We abolish Frost |
The Frost of Death was on the Pane — |
The Frost was never seen — |