Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection)/New England Winter

by Clarence Hawkes

NEW ENGLAND WINTER

Faintly the feeble sun streamed through the gray
That hung the heavens, and marked the waning day,
 Then sank from sight; we could not see him go,
 Only a sickly streak of yellow glow
Revealed his path. 'Then fell the shades of night,—
But not as they are wont, with silver light
 From peaceful stars, or radiance from the moon
 That make the winter night more fair than noon;
But with dark clouds that wrapped the fields in gloom,
Until the night was dark as Sodom's doom.

Then woke the wild wind in the leafless trees
And called the Frost King from his frozen seas,
 And hand in hand, they scoured the frozen earth,
 And peeped in at the panes, where joy and mirth
Had gathered round some cosy kitchen hearth;
And at the sight the wild wind roared in wrath,
 Awhile the bitter Frost King tried each crack,—
 But soon the bright fire drove him panting back;
Yet still he lingered by the window frame
And on its smooth glass wrote his mystic name.

 Then through the cellar wall went creeping in,
 To nip the rosy apples in their bin,
Or freeze the golden pumpkins on the floor,
With spiteful heart to spoil the winter store;
 But ever and anon comes back again
 To peep in at the frosty window pane,
And, if the fire upon the hearth burns low,
He creeps into the room, and chills it so
 That soon the revelers draw near the fire
 And stir the coals and pile the fuel higher.
And all this time, the wild wind shrieks and groans,
Or bellows down the chimney top, or moans
 Among the trees, or with a sudden roar,
 Comes rudely knocking at the cottage door.
Thus goes the night, until on field and town,
The feathery snow comes softly sifting down,
 Spreading its mantle o'er the field and wood,
 Folding the earth in winter's solitude.

Then morning breaks, and on the young day's cheek
There comes a flush and then a crimson streak,
 And soon the great sunshining clear and bright
 Mounts o'er the hills and floods the world with light.
How strange the scene,—the winds no longer blow
And quiet reigns; but how the wind-tossed snow
 Disguises mother earth, until things seem
 To be transfigured by some mystic dream.
The firs are spotless white and bending low
Beneath their heavy load of new made snow;
 The regal elm-trees lift their mighty arms,
 With snow and frost upon their leafless palms
And stand like giants in the morning light,
Their shaggy bark half showing through the white;
 Each fence and hedge has caught the feathery down—
 The garden gate-post wears a regal crown;
The rose-bush too, is loaded by the storm,
And every shrub has changed its old time form.

 But soon the heavy teams, with boys and men,
 Will come to break the drifted roads again
And pierce the deepest drifts and pile them high
And let the merry sleighing party by;
 For well New England young folks love the air,
 The frost, the wind, the cold, the snow's white glare
And all the bitter cold and nipping frost,
But lends enchantment to the merry coast.
 The great sun wheels his course and night draws near
 For winter days are short though sharp and clear.
Again the restless wind begins to moan
Among the trees in cheerless monotone
 And shake the new snow from the loaded boughs
 And fill the tracks just broken by the plows.
Swiftly the shadows lengthen o'er the snow
And one one by one the constellations show;
 Then night comes down and earth fantastic lies
 Beneath its cold star-gleaming winter skies.