Classic Poem

The frost gleams thick on the window pane,
The cart wheels creak down the frozen lane;
High from the chimneys, everywhere
Rise threads of smoke to the biting air;
The barn door creaks with a plaintive twinge,
Where the glistening frost tints the rusted hinge.

The old pump cries—a shivering cry;
While “Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!” tramp the horses by.
The chore boy shivers as he stands
And beats his sides with his mittened hands;
While the ice forms thick on the old pump spout,
As the glistening water gushes out.

There's hoarfrost deep on the great ox yoke,
And the breath of the oxen comes like smoke;
The clothes hang stiff on the swaying line,
And the house dog stands with a piteous whine
At the closed storm door; and the milk cows wait
With huddled bulks at the barnyard gate.

The prying youngster, unafraid,
Dares tip his tongue to the frosted blade
Of the axe that lies at the chopping-block;
The erstwhile strut of the barnyard cock
Is only a stiff and stilted round
As he picks his toes from the frozen ground.

There's snow inch-deep where the cows once browsed,
There's frost nail-thick on the beasts unhoused.
The chore boy stamps in the drifted snows
To coax the warmth to his tingling toes,
As he drives his fork in the sodden hay,
And the day is gray in a gloomy way.

There's a “Crunch!” and “Crunch!” as footsteps stalk
Down the sounding length of the pine board walk.
The well wheel squeaks with a frosty note
And the well rope's stiff with an icy coat;
The gathered oxen drink their fill
With updrawn backs, and a shiver chill.

The shed door creaks with a shivering sound,
As the soapsuds splash on the frozen ground
Where a pail from the half-bared arms is swung
Of the kitchen maid, who gives quick tongue
In a treble “B-r-r-r-h-h!” and a grateful change
Soon finds at the glow of the kitchen range.

The chore boy beds his beasts, and then
Shoos back to its perch a vagrant hen;
The sodden snow from his feet he knocks
Ere he piles the depths of the great wood-box
With snowy sticks; and when 'tis laid
He steals a kiss from the kitchen maid.

The fields are white and the earth is dead;
The frost snaps time to the chore boy's tread,
Stands thick, like snow, on the window pane,
And the cart wheels creak down the frozen lane.
While rise from the chimneys everywhere
Thin threads of smoke on the frosty air.