Now is Bolleswood buried deep, All in snowdrifts, all asleep; Nowhere is the smallest sound Save of fine snow blown around, Or the rustling of a blade That would make the wind afraid -- With its scimitar for stem Crusted like a diadem. Under brambles banked in sleet, And with no nest except their feet, Ruffling, settling, quail and grouse Turn, and turn, to make a house; Snow for roof, and snow for walls, Snow for stairway, snow for halls, Snow for doorstone, snow for sill; All is silent, all is still. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IMMORTALITY [OR, VERSE] by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR AFTERNOON ON A HILL by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY JEANIE MORRISON by WILLIAM MOTHERWELL A CHRISTMAS CAROL (1) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI ROSAMOND: KING HENRY'S SONG by JOSEPH ADDISON SPRING PLOWING by RUTH E. BILLEY |