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And let his weird and sleety beard
Stream loose upon the blast,
From his bald head falling fast.
Let his baleful breath shed blight and death
On herb and flower and tree;
Bind fast, but what care we?
Let him push at the door,-in the chimney roar,
And rattle the window-pane;
But he shall not entrance gain.
Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth,
On our roof-tiles, till he tire;
Before our blazing fire.
Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring;
Come, push the can about;-
Thomas Noel (1799–1861]
In silence I'll take my way.
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, · Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they!”
Then he went to the mountain, and powdered its crest, He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he dressed With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
Where a rock could rear its head.
By the light of the moon were seen
All pictured in silver sheen!
“Now, just to set them a-thinking,
Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865]
THE FROSTED PANE
Against my window-pane.
The ghosts of all his slain.
And fugitives of grass, -
Charles G. D. Roberts (1860
THE FROST SPIRIT He comes,-he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! You may
trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown
hill's withered brow.
The Frost Spirit
1345 He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their
pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken
them down to earth.
He comes,-he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! from the
frozen Labrador, From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white
bear wanders o'er, Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice and the luckless
forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues
He comes, he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! on the rush
ing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful
breath went past. With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of
Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.
He comes,-he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! and the
quiet lake shall feel The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the
skater's heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang
to the leaning grass, Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence
He comes,-he comes,-the Frost Spirit comes! Let us meet
him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power
away; And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances
high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!
John Greenleaf Whillier (1807-1892]
Lo, what wonders the day hath brought,
Born of the soft and slumbrous snow!
Writes expression on lip and brow.
Hanging garlands the eaves o'erbrim,
Deep drifts smother the paths below; The elms are shrouded, trunk and limb, And all the air is dizzy and dim
With a whirl of dancing, dazzling snow.
Dimly out of the baffled sight
Houses and church-spires stretch away; The trees, all spectral and still and white, Stand up like ghosts in the failing light,
And fade and faint with the blinded day.
Down from the roofs in gusts are hurled
The eddying drifts to the waste below; And still is the banner of storm unfurled, Till all the drowned and desolate world
Lies dumb and white in a trance of snow.
Slowly the shadows gather and fall,
Still the whispering snow-flakes beat;
Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet!
Clouds may thicken, and storm-winds breathe:
On my wall is a glimpse of Rome, – Land of my longing!—and underneath Swings and trembles my olive-wreath; Peace and I are at home, at home!
Elizabeth Akers (1832–1911)
TO A SNOW-FLAKE
Francis Thompson (1859?-1907)
On the lake below thy gentle eyes;
And dark and silent the water lies;
Flake after flake
From the chambers beyond that misty veil;
Rush prone from the sky like summer hail.