Now the long-bearded chilly-fingered winter Over the green fields sweeps his cloak and leaves Its whiteness there. It caught on the wild trees, Shook whiteness on the hedges and left bare South-sloping corners and south-fronting smooth Barks of tall beeches swaying 'neath their whiteness So gently that the whiteness does not fall. The ash copse shows all white between gray poles, The oaks spread arms to catch the wandering snow; But the yews—I wondered to see their dark all white, To see the soft flakes fallen on those grave deeps, Lying there, not burnt up by the yews' slow fire. —Could Time so whiten all the trembling senses, The youth, the fairness, the all-challenging strength, And load even Love's grave deeps with his barren snows? Even so. And what remains? The hills of thought That shape Time's snows and melt them and lift up Green and unchanging to the wandering stars. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ROCK ME TO SLEEP by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN THE SONG OF A HEATHEN by RICHARD WATSON GILDER DESCRIPTIONS by VIRGINIA A. ALLIN BUCK O' KINGWATTER by ROBERT ANDERSON OF CARLISLE PASSIO XL MARTYRUM by ARTHUR E. BAKER AN EVENING PRAYER by BERNARD BARTON THE METAMORPHOSIS OF THE WALNUT-TREE OF BOARSTELL: ECLOGUE by WILLIAM BASSE |