Flower Pieces and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The time of Frost is the time for me!
When the gay blood spins through the heart with glee,
When the voice leaps out with a chiming sound,
And the footstep rings on the musical ground;
When earth is white, and air is bright,
And every breath a new delight!

While Yesterday sank, full soon, to rest,
What a glorious sky!—through the level west
Pink clouds in a delicate greenish haze,
Which deepen'd up into purple grays,
With stars aloft as the light decreas'd,
Till the great Moon rose in the rich blue east.

And Morning!—each pane a garden of frost,
Of delicate flow'ring, as quickly lost;
For the stalks are fed by the moon's cold beams,
And the leaves are woven like woof of dreams
By Night's keen breath, and a glance of the Sun
Like dreams will scatter them every one.

Hurra! the lake is a league of glass!
Buckle and strap on the stiff white grass.
Off we shoot, and poise and wheel,
And swiftly turn upon scoring heel;
And our flying sandals chirp and sing
Like a flock of swallows fresh on the wing.

Away from the crowd with the wind we drift,
No vessel's motion so smoothly swift;
Fainter and fainter the tumult grows,
And the gradual stillness and wide repose
Touch with a hue more soft and grave
The lapse of joy's declining wave.

110

Pure is the ice; our glance may sound
Deep through an awful, dim profound,
To the water dungeons where snake-weeds hide,
Over which, as self-upborne, we glide,
Like wizards on dark adventure bent,
The masters of every element.

Homeward—and how the shimmering snow
Kisses our hot cheeks as we go!
Wavering down the feeble wind,
Like myriad thoughts in a Poet's mind,
Till the earth, and trees, and icy lakes,
Are slowly clothed with the countless flakes.

But our Village street—the stir and noise!
The long black slides running mad with boys!
The pie is kept hot, in sequence due,
Aristocrat now the hobnail shoe;
And the quaint white bullets fly here and there
With laugh and shout in the wintry air.

In the clasp of Home, by the ruddy fire,
Ranged in a ring to our heart's desire,
Now, who will tell some wondrous tale,
Almost to turn the warm cheeks pale,
Set chin on hands, make grave eyes stare,
Draw slowly nearer each stool and chair?

The one low voice goes wandering on
In a mystic world, whither all are gone;
The shadows dance; little Caroline
Has stolen her fingers up into mine.
But the night outside is very chill,
And the Frost hums loud at the window-sill.