 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
THE SNOW-FLOWER.
The fields were all one field of snow,
The hedge was like a silver wall;
And when the March began to blow,
And clouds to fill, and rain to fall,
I wept that they should spoil it all.
The hedge was like a silver wall;
And when the March began to blow,
And clouds to fill, and rain to fall,
I wept that they should spoil it all.
At first the flakes with flurrying whirl
Hid from my eyes the rivulet,
Lying crooked, like a seam of pearl,
Along some royal coverlet—
I stood, as I remember yet,
Hid from my eyes the rivulet,
Lying crooked, like a seam of pearl,
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I stood, as I remember yet,
With cheeks close-pressed against the pane,
And saw the hedge's hidden brown
Come out beneath the fretting rain;
And then I saw the wall go down—
My silver wall, and all was brown.
And saw the hedge's hidden brown
Come out beneath the fretting rain;
And then I saw the wall go down—
My silver wall, and all was brown.
And then, where all had been so white,
As still the rain slid slant and slow,
Bushes and briers came out in sight,
And spikes of reeds began to show,
And then the knot-grass, black and low.
As still the rain slid slant and slow,
Bushes and briers came out in sight,
And spikes of reeds began to show,
And then the knot-grass, black and low.
One day, when March was at the close,
The mild air balm, the sky serene,
The fields that had been fields of snows,
And, after, withered wastes, were seen
With here and there some tender green;
The mild air balm, the sky serene,
The fields that had been fields of snows,
And, after, withered wastes, were seen
With here and there some tender green;
That day my heart came sudden up
With pleasure that was almost pain—
Being in the fields, I found a cup,
Pure white, with just a blood-red vein
Dashed round the edges, by the rain.
With pleasure that was almost pain—
Being in the fields, I found a cup,
Pure white, with just a blood-red vein
Dashed round the edges, by the rain.
The rain, which I that wild March hour
So foolishly had wept to see,
Had shaped the snow into a flower,
And thus had brought it back to me
Sweeter than only snow, could be.
So foolishly had wept to see,
Had shaped the snow into a flower,
And thus had brought it back to me
Sweeter than only snow, could be.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |