IT THAWS. On field and roadway the packing drifts have faded: The service-berry drips, and the slush is deep and stale; The clouds hang low and leaden; the evening flow is pale: The paths gleam like a brooklet, whose bed is all unshaded. Along the highway trudges a messenger; unaided, He limps and halts and shivers; his bag holds little mail -- A single wretched letter all crumpled, old, and frail -- He must push on; the village he nears now, lame and jaded. He knocks. A timid woman admits him: "Till now, never Had I a letter! Heavens! My boy! Quick, give it here! He's coming! Now we're happy!" Her aged muscles quiver: "God sent you here. Be seated and warm yourself; come near: A share of my possessions are yours to keep forever." The postman limps no longer, warmed by the woman's cheer. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DIBDIN'S GHOST by EUGENE FIELD GREEN SYMPHONY by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER THE REVENGE OF HAMISH by SIDNEY LANIER INDIGNATION; AN ODE by LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE HAWTHORNE by AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT FANNIE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH AUTUMN SUNSET ON THE SIERRA NEVADAS by DOROTHY BOARDMAN SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 33 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |