IN THE SNOW.
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Singing birds, in the trees,
Chant their merriest song
When this little witch of a girl
Comes lightly tripping along!
Would I were the balmy west wind!
I'd sail the purple voids through,
And rest in the shadow made by her curls,
And taste of her crimson lips' dew;
And the envying world should look on me
And My Little Lady in Blue!
Chant their merriest song
When this little witch of a girl
Comes lightly tripping along!
Would I were the balmy west wind!
I'd sail the purple voids through,
And rest in the shadow made by her curls,
And taste of her crimson lips' dew;
And the envying world should look on me
And My Little Lady in Blue!
IN THE SNOW.
Silent the world lies 'neath a steel-blue sky;
The winds are still in the old creaking pines,—
The oak-tree lifts its brawny arms on high,
Crowned and festooned by cream-white flowering vines.
The winds are still in the old creaking pines,—
The oak-tree lifts its brawny arms on high,
Crowned and festooned by cream-white flowering vines.
The English poplar stands up grim and brown,
A patriarchal giant bravely bold,
With long white hair, and royal ermine gown,
Like some Lord Magistrate in times of old.
A patriarchal giant bravely bold,
With long white hair, and royal ermine gown,
Like some Lord Magistrate in times of old.
The gate-posts, tipped and plumed like grenadiers,
Stand sentinels in silence stern and grave;
The knotted well-sweep its gaunt length uprears,
Chiselled, and carved, a marble architrave.
Stand sentinels in silence stern and grave;
The knotted well-sweep its gaunt length uprears,
Chiselled, and carved, a marble architrave.
