WINTER: A DIRGE

The wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw; Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw: While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pa.s.s the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"

The joyless winter day.

Let others fear,--to me more dear Than all the pride of May; The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest,--they must be best, Because they are Thy will.

Then all I want (oh, do Thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, a.s.sist me to resign!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

OLD WINTER

Old Whiter sad, in snow yclad, Is making a doleful din; But let him howl till he crack his jowl, We will not let him in.

Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift His h.o.a.ry, haggard form, And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand Outstretching to the storm.

And let his weird and sleety beard Stream loose upon the blast, And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime From his bald head falling fast.

Let his baleful breath shed blight and death On herb and flower and tree; And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds Bind fast, but what care we?

Let him push at the door,--in the chimney roar, And rattle the window-pane; Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye, But he shall not entrance gain.

Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth, On our roof-tiles, till he tire; But we care not a whit, as we jovial sit Before our blazing fire.

Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring; Come, push the can about;-- From our snug fire-side this Christmas-tide We'll keep old Winter out.

Thomas Noel [1799-1861]

THE FROST

The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, And he said, "Now I shall be out of sight; So through the valley and over the height In silence I'll take my way.

I will not go like that bl.u.s.tering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, But I'll be as busy as they!"

Then he went to the mountain, and powdered its crest, He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he dressed With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear That he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane like a fairy crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, By the light of the moon were seen Most beautiful things. There were flowers and trees, There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees, There were cities, thrones, temples, and towers, and these All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair,-- He peeped in the cupboard, and, finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare,-- "Now, just to set them a-thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he; "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three, And the gla.s.s of water they've left for me Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."

Hannah Flagg Gould [1789-1865]

THE FROSTED PANE

One night came Winter noiselessly and leaned Against my window-pane.

In the deep stillness of his heart convened The ghosts of all his slain.

Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth, And fugitives of gra.s.s,-- White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth, He drew them on the gla.s.s.

Charles G. D. Roberts [1860-

THE FROST SPIRIT

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's withered brow.

He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! from the frozen Labrador, From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o'er, Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice and the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! on the rushing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past.

With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! and the quiet lake shall feel The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater's heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning gra.s.s, Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pa.s.s.

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! Let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away; And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

SNOW

Lo, what wonders the day hath brought, Born of the soft and slumbrous snow!

Gradual, silent, slowly wrought; Even as an artist, thought by thought, Writes expression on lip and brow.

Hanging garlands the eaves o'erbrim, Deep drifts smother the paths below; The elms are shrouded, trunk and limb, And all the air is dizzy and dim With a whirl of dancing, dazzling snow.

Dimly out of the baffled sight Houses and church-spires stretch away; The trees, all spectral and still and white, Stand up like ghosts in the failing light, And fade and faint with the blinded day.

Down from the roofs in gusts are hurled The eddying drifts to the waste below; And still is the banner of storm unfurled, Till all the drowned and desolate world Lies dumb and white in a trance of snow.

Slowly the shadows gather and fall, Still the whispering snow-flakes beat; Night and darkness are over all: Rest, pale city, beneath their pall!

Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet!

Clouds may thicken, and storm-winds breathe: On my wall is a glimpse of Rome,-- Land of my longing!--and underneath Swings and trembles my olive-wreath; Peace and I are at home, at home!