Classic Poem

The wide, white world is bitter still,
(Oh, the snow lies deep in the barn-yard.)
And the dawn bites hard on the naked hill;
And the kitchen smoke from the chimney curls
Unblown, and hangs with a hue of pearls.
(Oh, the snow lies deep in the barn-yard.)

The polished well-iron burns like a brand.
(Oh, the frost is white on the latch.)
The horses neigh for their master's hand;
In the dusky stable they paw the floor
As his steps come crunching up to the door.
(Oh, the frost is white on the latch.)

In the high, dim barn the smell of the hay
(Oh, the snow lies deep in the barn-yard.)
Breathes him the breath of a summer's day.
The cows in their stanchions heavily rise
And watch him with slow, expectant eyes [.]
(Oh, the snow lies deep in the barn-yard.)

Into the mangers, into the stalls,
(Oh, the frost is white on the latch.)
The fodder, cheerily rustling, falls.
And the sound of the feeding fills the air
As the sun looks in at the window-square.
(Oh, the frost is white on the latch.)

With a rhythmic din in the echoing tins
(Oh, the snow lies deep in the barn-yard.)
The noise of the milking soon begins.
With deepening murmur up to the brims
The foamy whiteness gathers and swims.
(Oh, the snow lies deep in the barn-yard.)

When the ice is chopped at the great trough's brink,
(Oh, the frost is white on the latch.)
The cattle come lazily out to drink;
And the fowls come out on the sun-lit straw,—
For the sun's got high, and the south eaves thaw,
(And the frost is gone from the latch.)