Hoarse battle songs—so furious in feud

That nothing lives that has not felt their bite.

They sound a trumpet in the dead of night

That makes more solitary solitude.

Against the forest doors how fierce they beat!

Against the porch, against the school-bound boy

With crimson cheek bent to his shaggy coat.

The earth is pale but steadfast, hearing sweet

But far—how far away! the stream of joy

Outpouring from a bluebird’s tender throat.

{45}

{45}

The Snow-Storm

THE great, soft, downy snow-storm like a cloak

T

Descends to wrap the lean world head to feet;

It gives the dead another winding-sheet,

It buries all the roofs until the smoke

Seems like a soul that from its clay has broke;

It broods moon-like upon the Autumn wheat,

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