The giant that lives in the hill Is cleaning his chimney out. The soot flutters high In the cold, white sky And the wind flings it rudely about. Now it's falling in fragments of black Where the tops of the maples are red; And a world that was still Of a sudden's a-thrill With the sounds of a spring that is dead! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW WHITE FIELDS by JAMES STEPHENS RID OF HIS ENGINE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON TASTE, AN EPISTLE TO A YOUNG CRITIC by JOHN ARMSTRONG A SONNET. ON THE DEATH OF SYLVIA by PHILIP AYRES RAIN ON FALL NIGHTS by MILDRED TELFORD BARNWELL THE BRIDE'S TRAGEDY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE SOUL'S TENDENCY TOWARDS ITS TRUE CENTRE by JOHN BYROM TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. THE DEAD CHRIST by EDWARD CARPENTER |