Out of the frost-white wood comes winnowing through No wing; no homely call or cry is heard. Even the hope of life seems far deferred. The hard hills ache beneath their spectral hue. A dove-grey cloud, tender as tears or dew, From one lone hearth exhaling, hangs unstirred, Like the poised ghost of some unnamed great bird In the ineffable pallor of the blue. Such, I must think, even at the dawn of Time, Was thy white hush, O world, when thou lay'st cold, Unwaked to love, new from the Maker's word, And the spheres, watching, stilled their high accord, To marvel at perfection in thy mould, The grace of thine austerity sublime! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE THREE LITTLE KITTENS (A CAT'S TALE, WITH ADDITIONS) by ELIZA LEE CABOT FOLLEN SONNETS FOR PICTURES: A VENETIAN PASTORAL (BY GIOGIONE) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI AN OLD WOMAN: 1 by EDITH SITWELL AN OLD CASTLE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH FROM HIDDEN SOURCE by JEAN ANDERSON THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH: BOOK 2. DIET by JOHN ARMSTRONG OENONE by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN THE BABES IN THE WOOD; OR, THE NORFOLK TRAGEDY by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM SONNET TO NICHOLAS BLACKLEECH OF GRAYES INNE by RICHARD BARNFIELD |