The hoar-frost lingers long on branch and bough Of morning; and the sun, too pale, too far, Climbs stiffly down the broken hills; but now It warms no thing of all the miles that are -- Brings no new life; but only dawn and day, And brief surcease from bitterness of night. -- And iron-rimmed wagons creak along the way Of yester-storm; and stock is stabled tight Beneath snug roofs; and sweet their shadowed place, Hay-scented, warmed, by their great steaming breath, To comfort; and within the dim, quiet space There is no fear of winter, or of death -- And down the road a neighbor sniffs the air And scans the heavens with a practised eye, And plots his work by what he visions there; By readings which he takes from wind and sky -- By readings which he, keen, observant, knows; And I, who find his swift predictions good -- This lean, skilled veteran of many snows -- Tonight I brace the door, and heap the wood. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MY DEATH AS A GIRL I KNEW by JAMES GALVIN SPEAKING TERMS by JAMES GALVIN WHAT WE SAID THE LIGHT SAID by JAMES GALVIN YOU KNOW WHAT PEOPLE SAY by JAMES GALVIN REPULSE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MONADNOCK IN EARLY SPRING by AMY LOWELL EIGHTEEN-DOLLAR TAXI TRIP TO TIZAPAN AND BACK TO CHAPALA by CLARENCE MAJOR |