The hiss of speeding motors in the street Is muffled now. The far-off whistles blow Dull in a feathered world of falling snow; The drifted walks are deaf to hurrying feet. The clock ticks with a sober, patient beat; At intervals a timber creaks below; Upon the hearth the birch logs snap and glow -- The rest is silence, soothing and complete. Even the winds are still. No frosted pane Is shaken by the ghostly finger-tips Of driven snow; no storm-born gnomes complain Down the chimney's throat. The evening slips From dream to dream, while doubt and care expire Within the golden circle of the fire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A NORTHERN SUBURB by JOHN DAVIDSON THE OL' TUNES by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR BOSTON COMMON: 1630 by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES TO A DISTANT FRIEND by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE MORAL FABLES: THE PROLOG by AESOP LILIA'S TRESS by WILLIAM ROSE BENET MY FLOWERS by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER DARTMOOR: SUNSET AT CHAGFORD: HOMO LOQVITUR by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. EARLY MORNING by EDWARD CARPENTER |