Poems (Hoffman)/The Frost
THE FROST
It came on a blossomy night of Spring,
The blight, the blast, the frost;
It touched the blooms with its icy wing,
Alas, for the Summer's promised fruit!
The morning dawned on those blighted blooms,
They were fragrant still and fair,
But the hand of death had been there,
Nor their tiny hearts did spare;
Alas, for the life whose heart is dead,
As the blighted blossoms that hang o'erhead!
Alas, for the branches bleak and bare!
The blight, the blast, the frost;
It touched the blooms with its icy wing,
Alas, for the Summer's promised fruit!
The morning dawned on those blighted blooms,
They were fragrant still and fair,
But the hand of death had been there,
Nor their tiny hearts did spare;
Alas, for the life whose heart is dead,
As the blighted blossoms that hang o'erhead!
Alas, for the branches bleak and bare!