File:Bryant. Poems from the works of William Cullen Bryant (1884) (14781724401).jpg

Identifier: bryantpoemsfromw00brya (find matches)
Title: Bryant. Poems from the works of William Cullen Bryant
Year: 1884 (1880s)
Authors: Bryant, William Cullen, 1794-1878 Hedgdon, Josephine E., (from old catalog) comp
Subjects:
Publisher: New York, D. Appleton and compnay
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: Sloan Foundation

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g maiden, now twelvesummers old. Now you must know that, in those early times,When autumn days grew pale, there came a troopOf childlike forms from that cold mountain-top;With trailing garments through the air they came,Or walked the ground with girded loins, and threwSpangles of silvery frost upon the grass,And edged the brooks with glistening parapets,And built it crystal bridges, touched the pool,And turned its face to glass, or, rising thence,They shook from their full laps the soft, light snow,And buried the great earth, as autumn windsBury the forest - floor in heaps of leaves.A beautiful race were they, with baby brows,And fair, bright locks, and voices like the sound 65 LEAFnm^fROM STANDARD AUTHORS. Of steps on the crisp snow, in which they talkedWith man, as friend with friend. A merry sightIt was, when, crowding round the traveller, They smote him with their heaviest snow-flakes, flungNeedles of frost in handfuls at his cheeks,And, of the light wreaths of his smoking breath,
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Wove a white fringe for his brown beard, and laughedTheir slender laugh to see him wink and grinAnd make grim faces as he floundered on.But, when the spring came on, what terror reigned Among these Little People of the Snow!To them the suns warm beams were shafts of fire,And the soft south-wind was the wind of death.Away they flew, all with a pretty scowl 66 BRYANT. Upon their childish faces, to the And moulding little snow - balls in north, Or scampered upward to the moun-tains top, And there defied their enemy, theSpring; Skipping and dancing on the frozen A merry sight to look at. peaks, Uncle John.— You are right their palms,And rolling them, to crush her flowers below,Down the steep snow-fields. Alice.^- That, too, must have been

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