Seldom we see such crude cold winter times; Yon sooty patch upon the snow-clad weald - Is that, indeed, the bower of honied limes? The balm-grove, where a ten-years' wound was healed? Where Annie sat with Ambrose? where she tried A cure more sweet than Gilead's pharmacy? And did she read him his rich destiny In that dark holt that blurs the white hill-side? The brook, I trow, is bound in frosty bands, Where Rover plashed, and, venting merry tones, Trod in the summer-light that swam the sands; While, sportive in their bliss, those plighted ones Confused his eager ear with dropping stones, But evermore reclasped their happy hands. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FLUSH OR FAUNUS by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING TOM BOWLING ['S EPITAPH] by CHARLES DIBDIN AT HOME IN HEAVEN by JAMES MONTGOMERY THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE by ROBERT MORRIS FOUR SONNETS: 2 by FRANK DAVIS ASHBURN |