THE flute, whence Summer's dreamy fingertips Drew music, -- ripening the pinched kernels in The burly chestnut and the chinquapin, Red-rounding-out the oval haws and hips, -- Now Winter crushes to his stormy lips, And surly songs whistle around his chin; Now the wild days and wilder nights begin When, at the eaves, the crooked icicle drips. Thy songs, O Summer, are not lost so soon! Still dwells a memory in thy hollow flute, Which unto Winter's masculine airs doth give Thy own creative qualities of tune, Through which we see each bough bend white with fruit, Each bush with bloom, in snow commemorative. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE KISS by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR SUMMER'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT: A LITANY IN TIME OF PLAGUE by THOMAS NASHE THE PRINCESS: [BUGLE] SONG by ALFRED TENNYSON PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 95, 96. AL-AZALI, AL-BAKI by EDWIN ARNOLD BACCHANALIA; OR, THE NEW AGE by MATTHEW ARNOLD AN UPPER CHAMBER by FRANCES BANNERMAN SECTION GANG: DAYBREAK by NORMAN BOLKER OCTOBER XXIX, 1795 (KEATS' BIRTHDAY) by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE |