Classic Poem

The swift is wheeling and gleaming,
The brook is brown in its bed,
Rain from the cloud is streaming,
And the Bow bends overhead:
The charm of the Winter is broken! the last of the spell is said!

Out of the East one morning
Grey Winter came in sight,
But his elves with never a warning
Had been at work all night,
Tinkling at trees and windows, and hanging the world in white.

Up, with a foggy breathing,
His nose all red with cold,
Round him the vapours wreathing,
O'er him the dark clouds rolled,
The greybeard came that morning, rheumy and blear'd and old!

The sharp wind blew behind him,
The swift wind ran before,
The thick snow tried to blind him,
His feet were chilly and sore:
You could hear his wheezing and coughing, a hundred miles and more!

Slowly, with feet that linger'd
Up the hills and down,
Chilly footed and finger'd,
He came to our good Town:
The fog was a robe around him, the frost had made him a crown.

Woeful he seem'd and weary,
As he the steeple spied,
All look'd dull and dreary
Under it far and wide;
But when to the pond he wander'd the boys were making a slide!

Comforters warm and woollen,
Boots all thick and strong,
With not a feature sullen
There they cried in a throng:
And the robin sat on the paling, watching and singing a song!

Then seeing a sight so jolly,
Old Winter nodded his head,
And drew out a bunch of holly
With berries all ripe and red,
And he waved the holly for magic, while down the slide they sped!

And suddenly with no warning,
All at the pleasant sign,
The bells rang out in the morning,
And the sun began to shine,—
And the host at the inn door chuckled, and all the world looked fine!

… But now the earth is green again,
And the blue swift wheels in the air;
Leaves on the hedges are seen again,
And the rain is rich and rare,
And all for another promise the Bow bends bright up there!

The Bow bends out of the heaven,
Out of the cloud o'erhead,
The hues in the Bow are seven,
From yellow to purple and red,—
Its foot on the churchyard resteth, bright on the graves of the Dead!

The eel in the pond is quick'ning,
The grayling leaps in the stream,—
What if the clouds are thick'ning,
See how the meadows gleam!
The spell of the Winter is shaken, the world awakes from a dream.

The fir puts out green fingers,
The pear-tree softly blows,
The rose in her dark bower lingers,
But her curtains will soon unclose,—
The lilac will shake her ringlets, over the blush of the rose!

The swift is wheeling and gleaming,
The woods are beginning to ring,
Rain from the clouds is streaming;
There, where the Bow doth cling,
Summer is smiling afar off, over the shoulder of Spring!