Now all the twigs and grasses Are feathery with snow; The land is white and level, The brooks have ceased to flow. No song is in the woodland, There is no light of sun, But bright and warm and tender Is my sweetheart, Yvonne. The lower hills are purple, The farther peaks are lost; There's nothing left alive now, Except the bitter frost. Yes, two there be that heed not How cold the year may run: The fire upon the hearthstone, And my sweetheart, Yvonne. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR MY OWN TOMBSTONE by MATTHEW PRIOR NATIONAL ODE; INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA by BAYARD TAYLOR THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY by WALT WHITMAN SONNET: ENGLAND by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH MY LOYAL LOVE by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS LIMERICK by FRANK GELETT BURGESS THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER by ROBERT BURNS A LANCASHIRE DIALOGUE, OCCASIONED BY A PREACHER WITHOUT NOTES by JOHN BYROM |