Now is Bolleswood buried deep, All in snowdrifts, all asleep; Nowhere is the smallest sound Save of fine snow blown around, Or the rustling of a blade That would make the wind afraid -- With its scimitar for stem Crusted like a diadem. Under brambles banked in sleet, And with no nest except their feet, Ruffling, settling, quail and grouse Turn, and turn, to make a house; Snow for roof, and snow for walls, Snow for stairway, snow for halls, Snow for doorstone, snow for sill; All is silent, all is still. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HUMAN ABSTRACT, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE ENGLAND (2) by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE SONG OF THE SUPERMAN by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE BEFORE VICKSBURG by GEORGE HENRY BOKER A SKIER by ARTHUR STANLEY BOURINOT |