THE weather is sharp, But the girls are unmoved: One wakes from a harp, The next from a viol A strain that I loved When life was no trial. The tripletime beat Bounds forth on the snow, But the spry springing feet Of a century ago, And the arms that enlaced As the couples embraced, Are silent old bones Under graying gravestones. The snow-feathers sail Across the harp-strings, Whose throbbing threads wail Like love-satiate things. Each lyre's grimy mien, With its rout-raising tune, Against the new white Of the flake-laden noon, Is incongruous to sight, Hinting years they have seen Of revel at night Ere these damsels became Possessed of their frame. O bygone whirls, heys, Crotchets, quavers, the same That were danced in the days Of grim Bonaparte's fame, Or even by the toes Of the fair Antoinette, -- Yea, old notes like those Here are living on yet! -- But of their fame and fashion How little these know Who strum without passion For pence, in the snow! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WILLING MISTRESS by APHRA BEHN NOCTURNE IN A DESERTED BRICKYARD by CARL SANDBURG TO MISS KINDER, ON RECEIVING A NOTE DATED FEBRUARY 30TH by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD SHEKLA: A VISION by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE INDWELLING by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 17. AN ELEGY by THOMAS CAMPION |