The Hoar Frost on the Wood
LOOK through the glistening stubble-fields to where
Last night, in sullen and complaining mood,
Over the fate that left them grim and bare,
The trees in yonder dear old forest stood.
“The spring,” they moaned, “Ah, it will be a while
Ere she can reach us with her magic wand!”
Who was it heard? To-day, mile upon mile,—
There stretches out a white enchanted land,
Each tall tree hath a weight of gems that shine—
Mark how the sun can draw its beauties out—
On every soft white thing its kisses fall,
Till in the air we see a dazzling line
Of sparkling gems—it is a glorious rout
Of nature’s children holding Carnival.