HOW small a tooth hath mined the season's heart! How cold a touch hath set the wood on fire, Until it blazes like a costly pyre Built for some Ganges emperor, old and swart, Soul-sped on clouds of incense! Whose the art That webs the streams, each morn, with silver wire, Delicate as the tension of a lyre, -- Whose falchion pries the chestnut-bur apart? It is the Frost, a rude and Gothic sprite, Who doth unbuild the Summer's palaced wealth, And puts her dear loves all to sword or flight; Yet in the hushed, unmindful winter's night The spoiler builds again with jealous stealth, And sets a mimic garden, cold and bright. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A NORTHERN SUBURB by JOHN DAVIDSON AUF WIEDERSEHEN! SUMMER by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL A HOLIDAY by LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE THE STEAM-ENGINE: CANTO 6. ON THE CORK PACKET, 1837 by T. BAKER MORGUE: 1. LITTLE ASTER by GOTTFRIED BENN SONNETS OF SEVEN CITIES: CHICAGO by BERTON BRALEY |