I have walked a great while over the snow, And I am not tall nor strong. My clothes are wet, and my teeth are set, And the way was hard and long. I have wandered over the fruitful earth, But I never came here before. Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door! The cutting wind is a cruel foe. I dare not stand in the blast. My hands are stone, and my voice a groan, And the worst of death is past. I am but a little maiden still, My little white feet are sore. Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door! Her voice was the voice that women have, Who plead for their heart's desire. She came -- she came -- and the quivering flame Sank and died in the fire. It never was lit again on my hearth Since I hurried across the floor, Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CROCODILE, FR. ALICE IN WONDERLAND by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON A VALENTINE by LAURA ELIZABETH HOWE RICHARDS MUSIC IN THE NIGHT by HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD TO THE DAISY (3) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH MEN OF GENIUS by MATTHEW ARNOLD A PASTORAL by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE ANCRE AT HAMEL: AFTERWARDS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN MARCH OF THE MEN OF HARLECH by ALEXANDER BOSWELL HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 20 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |