LOVE, thou art not alone for gentle dells, Where summer breezes, sweetly perfumed, breathe Through heavy branches. Thy place is also where the winter wind Roars down the long, bleak hill; The flying snow Doth blind the traveller as he strives to gain The little cottage under the sheltering pines, Where thou art waiting, Love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SUMTER [APRIL 12, 1861] by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN THE ROSES ON THE TERRACE by ALFRED TENNYSON THE CHERRY TREES by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS WINGS AT DAWN by JOSEPH AUSLANDER S. JOHN BAPTIST by JOSEPH BEAUMONT SERVICE by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH TO ROBERT BURNS; AN EPISTLE ON INSTINCT by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES |