Shine on the kangaroo, thou sun! Make far New Zealand faint with fear! Thank goodness, old October's here! Thomas Constable [1812-1881] NOVEMBER WHEN thistle-blows do lightly float About the pasture-height, And shrills the hawk a parting note, And creeps the frost at night, Then hilly ho! though singing so, There comes again the old heart pain In high wind creaks the leafless tree The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be, And cold the sun does burn. I cannot keep it down; The tears arise unto my eyes, And thoughts are chill and brown. Far in the cedars' dusky stoles, The partridge drums funereal rolls And hip, hip, ho! though cheering so, It stills no whit the pain; For drip, drip, drip, from bare-branch tip, I hear the year's last rain. So drive the cold cows from the hill, And call the wet sheep in; And let their stamping clatter fill The barn with warming din. And ho, folk, ho! though it be so That we no more may roam, C. L. Cleaveland [18 ? 1 Storm Fear 1385 NOVEMBER HARK you such sound as quivers? Kings will hear, From scarlet lands to lands forever pale; It is such sound as death; and, after all, STORM FEAR WHEN the wind works against us in the dark, And pelts with snow The lower chamber window on the east, And whispers with a sort of stifled bark, "Come out! Come out!" It costs no inward struggle not to go, Ah, no! I count our strength, Two and a child, Those of us not asleep subdued to mark How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length, How drifts are piled, Dooryard and road ungraded, Till even the comforting barn grows far away And my heart owns a doubt Whether 'tis in us to arise with day And save ourselves unaided. Robert Frost [1875 WINTER: A DIRGE THE wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw; Or the stormy north sends driving forth While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day. "The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," The joyless winter day, Let others fear,-to me more dear Than all the pride of May; The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine! Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest,--they must be best, Because they are Thy will. Then all I want (oh, do Thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, Assist me to resign! Robert Burns [1759-1796] OLD WINTER OLD Winter sad, in snow yclad, Is making a doleful din; But let him howl till he crack his jowl, We will not let him in. Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift His hoary, haggard form, And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand The Frost And let his weird and sleety beard And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime Let his baleful breath shed blight and death On herb and flower and tree; And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds Bind fast, but what care we? 1387 Let him push at the door,-in the chimney roar, And rattle the window-pane; Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye, But he shall not entrance gain. Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth, On our roof-tiles, till he tire; But we care not a whit, as we jovial sit Before our blazing fire. Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring; Come, push the can about; From our snug fire-side this Christmas-tide We'll keep old Winter out. Thomas Noel [1799-1861] THE FROST THE Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, I will not go like that blustering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Then he went to the mountain, and powdered its crest, He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he dressed With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear He went to the windows of those who slept, Most beautiful things. There were flowers and trees, There were cities, thrones, temples, and towers, and these But he did one thing that was hardly fair,— Hannah Flagg Gould [1789-1865] THE FROSTED PANE ONE night came Winter noiselessly and leaned In the deep stillness of his heart convened The ghosts of all his slain. Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth, And fugitives of grass, White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth, He drew them on the glass. Charles G. D. Roberts [1860 THE FROST SPIRIT HE comes, he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's withered brow. |