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Home  »  An American Anthology, 1787–1900  »  1167 Frost

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By Edith MatildaThomas

1167 Frost

HOW small a tooth hath mined the season’s heart!

How cold a touch hath set the wood on fire,

Until it blazes like a costly pyre

Built for some Ganges emperor, old and swart,

Soul-sped on clouds of incense! Whose the art

That webs the streams, each morn, with silver wire,

Delicate as the tension of a lyre,—

Whose falchion pries the chestnut-burr apart?

It is the Frost, a rude and Gothic sprite,

Who doth unbuild the Summer’s palaced wealth,

And puts her dear loves all to sword or flight;

Yet in the hushed, unmindful winter’s night

The spoiler builds again with jealous stealth,

And sets a mimic garden, cold and bright.