 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
WINTER.
“Who is that white-faced old man
Outside, at the window-pane,
That muttered and sighed, as away he ran
Into the sleet and rain,
Crying to some one behind;
Calling to some one before;
One whom he cannot find,
One who will come no more?”
Outside, at the window-pane,
That muttered and sighed, as away he ran
Into the sleet and rain,
Crying to some one behind;
Calling to some one before;
One whom he cannot find,
One who will come no more?”
That old man has sisters three;
One he has never seen;
On a throne of roses afar sits she,
And the whole world owns her a queen:
But out of her riches and power
Nothing has she to spare—
Not so much as a flower—
For the lonesome wanderer there.
One he has never seen;
On a throne of roses afar sits she,
And the whole world owns her a queen:
But out of her riches and power
Nothing has she to spare—
Not so much as a flower—
For the lonesome wanderer there.
One sister beside him delayed,
And tries his thin fingers to hold;
But the storm her garments shredded and frayed,
And she sank benumbed with the cold.
And ever he prays and cries,
And over her silence grieves;
Behind him, alas! she lies
Buried in golden leaves.
And tries his thin fingers to hold;
But the storm her garments shredded and frayed,
And she sank benumbed with the cold.
And ever he prays and cries,
And over her silence grieves;
Behind him, alas! she lies
Buried in golden leaves.
One happy young face before
Looks back, between cloud and drift,
With a sudden smile, and is seen no more;
And the pilgrim follows, swift
As a flash of the noon-day light;
With wail and reproach and shout
He follows, through day and night,
Till again the face peeps out.
Looks back, between cloud and drift,
With a sudden smile, and is seen no more;
And the pilgrim follows, swift
As a flash of the noon-day light;
With wail and reproach and shout
He follows, through day and night,
Till again the face peeps out.
This fairest sister of all
Will laugh in the old man's face,
Will challenge him onward with merry call,
To measure with her a race,
Till, weary and lame, he falls,
Amid rosebuds and springing fern:
She flies with the wind; he calls;
But never will she return.
Will laugh in the old man's face,
Will challenge him onward with merry call,
To measure with her a race,
Till, weary and lame, he falls,
Amid rosebuds and springing fern:
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But never will she return.
For the pale-faced pilgrim without
Is Winter, the lonesome king,
Calling back to Autumn with dreary shout,
And hurrying on toward Spring.
As Summer rules over the flowers,
Over ice and snow reigns he:
Lo! there at the pane he glowers,
And shakes his white sceptre—see!
Is Winter, the lonesome king,
Calling back to Autumn with dreary shout,
And hurrying on toward Spring.
As Summer rules over the flowers,
Over ice and snow reigns he:
Lo! there at the pane he glowers,
And shakes his white sceptre—see!
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |