A solitude made more intense By dreary-voicëd elements, The shrieking of the mindless wind, The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, And on the glass the unmeaning beat Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. No church-bell lent its Christian tone To the savage air, no social smoke Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. The old horse thrust his long head out, And grave with wonder gazed about The cock his lusty greeting said, And forth his speckled harem led The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked, And mild reproach of hunger looked The hornëd patriarch of the sheep, Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep, Shook his sage head with gesture mute, And emphasized with stamp of foot.Īll day the gusty north-wind bore The loosening drift its breath before Low circling round its southern zone, The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. We reached the barn with merry din, And roused the prisoned brutes within. And, where the drift was deepest, made A tunnel walled and overlaid With dazzling crystal: we had read Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave, And to our own his name we gave, With many a wish the luck were ours To test his lamp's supernal powers.

The old familiar sights of ours Took marvellous shapes strange domes and towers Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, Or garden-wall, or belt of wood A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, A fenceless drift what once was road The bridle-post an old man sat With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat The well-curb had a Chinese roof And even the long sweep, high aloof, In its slant spendor, seemed to tell Of Pisa's leaning miracle.Ī prompt, decisive man, no breath Our father wasted: 'Boys, a path!' Well pleased (for when did farmer boy Count such a summons less than joy?) Our buskins on our feet we drew With mittened hands, and caps drawn low, To guard our necks and ears from snow, We cut the solid whiteness through. Unwarmed by any sunset light The gray day darkened into night, A night made hoary with the swarm And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, As zigzag, wavering to and fro, Crossed and recrossed the wingëd snow: And ere the early bedtime came The white drift piled the window-frame, And through the glass the clothes-line posts Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, Brought in the wood from out the doors, Littered the stalls, and from the mows Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows Heard the horse whinnying for his corn And, sharply clashing horn on horn, Impatient down the stanchion rows The cattle shake their walnut bows While, peering from his early perch Upon the scaffold's pole of birch, The cock his crested helmet bent And down his querulous challenge sent. The wind blew east we heard the roar Of Ocean on his wintry shore, And felt the strong pulse throbbing there Beat with low rhythm our inland air. A chill no coat, however stout, Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, A hard, dull bitterness of cold, That checked, mid-vein, the circling race Of life-blood in the sharpened face, The coming of the snow-storm told. Slow tracing down the thickening sky Its mute and ominous prophecy, A portent seeming less than threat, It sank from sight before it set. The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon. Ask for this YDP anthology at your favorite bookstore or order it online today!

Hue and cry into the flame