Edith Matilda Thomas (Эдит Матильда Томас)

Frost

HOW small a tooth hath mined the season's heart!
How cold a touch hath set the wood on fire,
Until it blazes like a costly pyre
Built for some Ganges emperor, old and swart,
Soul-sped on clouds of incense! Whose the art
That webs the streams, each morn, with silver wire,
Delicate as the tension of a lyre,--
Whose falchion pries the chest-nut burr apart?
It is the Frost, a rude and Gothic sprite,
Who doth unbuild the Summer's palaced wealth,
And puts her dear loves all to sword or flight;
Yet in the hushed, unmindful winter's night
The spoiler builds again with jealous stealth,
And set a mimic garden, cold and bright.

1. The Procession of the Kings
2. A Water Lily
3. A Far Cry to Heaven
4. In the Dark Little Flat at the End of the Court
5. Nature and Man

Charlotte Dacre (Шарлотта Дакре) Frost ("HIS ruby cheek made orient crimson pale")

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1737

Последние стихотворения

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