Now all the twigs and grasses Are feathery with snow; The land is white and level, The brooks have ceased to flow. No song is in the woodland, There is no light of sun, But bright and warm and tender Is my sweetheart, Yvonne. The lower hills are purple, The farther peaks are lost; There's nothing left alive now, Except the bitter frost. Yes, two there be that heed not How cold the year may run: The fire upon the hearthstone, And my sweetheart, Yvonne. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LAY OF THE TRILOBITE by MAY EMMA GOLDWORTH KENDALL THE END OF THE DAY by DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT PRAYER FOR THIS HOUSE by LOUIS UNTERMEYER LE MARAIS DU CYNGE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 19. AL-FATTA'H by EDWIN ARNOLD ADMONITION by FREDERIKA BLACKNER |