THE flute, whence Summer's dreamy fingertips Drew music, -- ripening the pinched kernels in The burly chestnut and the chinquapin, Red-rounding-out the oval haws and hips, -- Now Winter crushes to his stormy lips, And surly songs whistle around his chin; Now the wild days and wilder nights begin When, at the eaves, the crooked icicle drips. Thy songs, O Summer, are not lost so soon! Still dwells a memory in thy hollow flute, Which unto Winter's masculine airs doth give Thy own creative qualities of tune, Through which we see each bough bend white with fruit, Each bush with bloom, in snow commemorative. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BUGLER'S FIRST COMMUNION by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE WRECK OF THE DEUTSCHLAND by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS TRAVEL by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON SONNET: THE RARITY OF GENIUS by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH BEAUTIFUL THINGS by ELLEN P. ALLERTON PSALM 142 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE ON THE GREAT ENCOURAGEMENT GIVEN BY ENGLISH NOBILITY & GENTRY by WILLIAM BLAKE |