Snow-bound: A Winter Idyl

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Ticknor and Fields, 1868 - 65 страници
 

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Страница 19 - We piled with care our nightly stack Of wood against the chimney-back, — The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, And on its top the stout backstick; The knotty forestick laid apart, And filled between with curious art The ragged brush; then, hovering near, We watched the first red blaze appear, Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, Until the old, rude-furnished room Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom...
Страница 10 - Littered the stalls, and from the mows Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows : Heard the horse whinnying for his corn : And, sharply clashing horn on horn, Impatient down the stanchion rows The cattle shake their walnut bows ; While, peering from his early perch Upon the scaffold's pole of birch, The cock his crested helmet bent And down his querulous challenge sent.
Страница 9 - A chill no coat however stout, Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, A hard, dull bitterness of cold, That checked, mid-vein, the circling race' "'.-, Of life-blood in the sharpened face, •"•» The coming of the snow-storm told.
Страница 13 - Or garden-wall, or belt of wood; A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, A fenceless drift what once was road; The bridle-post an old man sat *° With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; The well-curb had a Chinese roof; And even the long sweep, high aloof, In its slant splendor, seemed to tell Of Pisa's leaning miracle. A prompt, decisive man, no breath Our father wasted: "Boys, a path!
Страница 21 - We sat the clean-winged hearth about, Content to let the north-wind roar In baffled rage at pane and door, While the red logs before us beat The frost-line back with tropic heat...
Страница 17 - The buried brooklet could not hear, The music of whose liquid lip Had been to us companionship, And, in our lonely life, had grown To have an almost human tone.
Страница 20 - When fire outdoors burns merrily, There the witches are making tea." The moon above the eastern wood Shone at its full; the hill-range stood Transfigured in the silver flood, Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, Dead white, save where some sharp ravine Took shadow, or the sombre green Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black Against the whiteness at their back.
Страница 63 - I hear again the voice that bids The dreamer leave his dream midway. For larger hopes and graver fears : Life greatens in these later years, The century's aloe flowers to-day...
Страница 23 - How strange it seems, with so much gone Of life and love, to still live on! Ah, brother! only I and thou ' Are left of all that circle now, — The dear home faces whereupon That fitful firelight paled and shone.
Страница 37 - There, too, our elder sister plied Her evening task the stand beside ; A full, rich nature, free to trust, Truthful and almost sternly just, Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act, ' And make her generous thought a fact, Keeping with many a light disguise The secret of self-sacrifice.

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