“When Winter fringes every bough...”
by Henry D. Thoreau
When
Winter fringes every bough
With his fantastic wreath,
And puts the seal of silence now
Upon the leaves beneath;
When
every stream in its pent-house
Goes
gurgling on its way,
And in his gallery the mouse
Nibbleth
the meadow hay;
Methinks
the summer still is nigh,
And
lurketh underneath,
As that same meadow mouse doth lie
Snug in
the last year’s heath.
And
if perchance the Chickadee
Lisp a
faint note anon,
The snow in summer’s canopy,
Which she
herself put on.
Fair
blossoms deck the cheerful trees,
And
dazzling fruits depend,
The north wind sighs a summer breeze,
The
nipping frosts to fend,
Bringing
glad tidings unto me,
The while
I stand all ear,
Of a serene eternity,
Which
need not winter fear.
Out
on the silent pond straightway
The
restless ice doth crack,
And pond sprites merry gambols play
Amid the
deafening rack.
Eager
I hasten to the vale,
As if I heard
brave news,
How nature held high festival,
Which it
were hard to lose.
I
gambol with my neighbor ice,
And
sympathizing quake,
As each new crack darts in a trice
Across
the gladsome lake.
One
with the cricket in the ground,
And fagot
on the hearth,
Resounds the rare domestic sound
Along the
forest path.
Return
to Henry D. Thoreau: Works
Return to Henry D. Thoreau: Works: Poetry
A
Note on the Text:
|