180
THE FIRST SNOW
Thy mantle white is on the senseless earth,
Spirit of Winter—old Eolus rude
Pipes from his northern home in fiercest mood;
And o'er the crisped wreaths, with shouts of mirth,
And chiming bells, and laughter ringing free,
Glides the swift sleigh; while merry urchins play,
Tossing the frozen balls in heart-felt glee,
Or forming uncouth shapes of monsters grim,
To melt like youthful hopes, when next the ray
Of noontide streams on each misshapen limb.
The naked branches wear a spotless vest—
While through the window infant faces peep,
Lured from their downy beds and early sleep,
Wondering to mark the earth in wintry garments drest.
