Sungleams | ||
97
XXX. ON MY BLUE HARE BEGINNING TO TURN WHITE.
Dear little exile from thy native hills,Condemned, I ween, to no unhappy doom—
With cozy box, and comfortable room
Round which to gambol as thy humour wills;
When the hoarse murmur of the tempest fills
The outer air in Autumn's deepening gloom,
This still retreat is better than the boom
Of waterfalls, or rushing mountain-rills:
And when on those wild northern summits lie
The drifts, and Winter-stars are all aglow,
Here by the fire thy fur shines sleek and dry;
Of cold discomfort nothing dost thou know;
Yet thy blanched feet seem to my wondering eye
As if they had been dipped in sudden snow!
Sungleams | ||