 | The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich |  |
II
Now while the pale arbutus in our woodsWakes to faint life beneath the dead year's leaves,
And the bleak North lets loose its wailing broods
Of winds upon us, and the gray sea grieves
Along our coast; while yet the Winter's hand
Heavily presses on New England's heart,
And Spring averts the sunshine of her eyes
Lest some vain cowslip should untimely start—
While we are housed in this rude season's gloom,
In this rude land,
Bereft of warmth and bloom,
We know, far off beneath the Southern skies,
Where the flush blossoms mock our drifts of snow
And the lithe vine unfolds its emerald sheen—
On many a sunny hillside there, we know
Our heroes' graves are green.
| The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | |