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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RHYMES OF THE DAY by GEORGE SANTAYANA PENMAEN POOL by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS RONDEAU by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT HYMNS OF THE MARSHES: MARSH SONG - AT SUNSET by SIDNEY LANIER WARREN'S ADDRESS [TO THE AMERICANS] [AT BUNKER HILL] [JUNE 17, 1775] by JOHN PIERPONT AN EVENING PRAYER by BERNARD BARTON |