IT THAWS. On field and roadway the packing drifts have faded: The service-berry drips, and the slush is deep and stale; The clouds hang low and leaden; the evening flow is pale: The paths gleam like a brooklet, whose bed is all unshaded. Along the highway trudges a messenger; unaided, He limps and halts and shivers; his bag holds little mail -- A single wretched letter all crumpled, old, and frail -- He must push on; the village he nears now, lame and jaded. He knocks. A timid woman admits him: "Till now, never Had I a letter! Heavens! My boy! Quick, give it here! He's coming! Now we're happy!" Her aged muscles quiver: "God sent you here. Be seated and warm yourself; come near: A share of my possessions are yours to keep forever." The postman limps no longer, warmed by the woman's cheer. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHARIOT by EMILY DICKINSON MERSA by KEITH CASTELLAINE DOUGLAS MOTHER TO SON by IRENE RUTHERFORD MCLEOD THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS AGAMEMNON: CHORUS by AESCHYLUS REMEMBRANCE by EGMONT HEGEL ARENS |