Classic Poem

A SPIRIT from the south through drifted glens
And o'er the naked woods and wilds has flown;
Slipped from their leashes in the mountain-dens,
With deep and hollow voice, the streams rush down,
Searching the level fields and sunken fens,
And round soft, sodden banks and hillocks bare,
Whirling in turbid circles everywhere.

The spongy soil sinks weltering to the foot,
And still thin, dusky streaks of crusted snow
In cold shades linger on the hemlock's root;
But all the open lawns and meadows glow
With faint warm flame of many a tender shoot;
The hazel stems are bright with burnished green,
And russet-hooded buds spring up between.

The plains are full of mingled mist and light;
Cloud-shadows cross the hills with sudden showers;
The dawn in frosty calm breaks cold and white,
Ripening to golden bloom at noonday hours;
Shrill winds and winter flurries blur the night,
And in the glimpses of the rifted skies
The young moon's slender crescent gleams and dies.