Now comes the graybeard of the north:
The forests bare their rugged breasts
To every wind that wanders forth,
And, in their arms, the lonely nests
That housed the birdlings months ago
Are egged with flakes of drifted snow.
No more the robin...
|
It is in Winter that we dream of Spring;
For all the barren bleakness and the cold,
The longing fancy sees the frozen mould
Decked with sweet blossoming.
Though all the birds be silent,—though
The fettered stream’s soft voice be still,
And...
|
Pale beryl sky, with clouds
Hued like dove’s wing,
O’ershadowing
The dying day,
And whose edge half enshrouds
The first fair evening star,
Most crystalline by far
Of all the stars that night enring,
...
|
“se dio ti lasci, lettor, prender frutto
Di tua lezione.”
|
I know it must be winter (though I sleep)—
I know it must be winter, for I dream
I dip my bare feet in the running stream,
And flowers are many, and the grass grows deep.
I know I must be old (how age deceives!)—
I know I must be old, for, all...
|
Soft-sandalled twilight, handmaid of the night,
Before her noble lady’s radiant face
Doth slowly come, with gentle, quiet pace,
And draweth rose and azure curtains light
Around the snowy couch, so pure, so white,
Whereon her mistress soon will rest. With...
|
Ho, a song by the fire!
(Pass the pipes, fill the bowl!)
Ho, a song by the fire!
—With a skoal!…
For the wolf wind is whining in the doorways,
And the snow drifts deep along the road,
And the ice-gnomes are marching from their Norways,
And...
|
O Thou of home the guardian Lar,
And, when our earth hath wandered far
Into the cold, and deep snow covers
The walks of our New England lovers,
Their sweet secluded evening-star!
’T was with thy rays the English Muse
Ripened her mild domestic hues...
|
From “Snow-Bound”
THE SUN that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming...
|
OLD wine to drink!—
Ay, give the slippery juice
That drippeth from the grape thrown loose
Within the tun;
Plucked from beneath the cliff
Of sunny-sided Teneriffe,
And ripened ’neath the blink
Of India’s sun!
Peat...
|
|
|
