27.12.2010, 17:35
ANNIE AND AMBROSE,
Or a Winter-Grove with a Summer-Memory.
Seldom we see such crude cold winter times ;
Yon sooty patch upon the snow-clad weald —
Is that, indeed, the bower of honied limes ?
The balm-grove, where a ten-years' wound was heal'd ?
Where Annie sat with Ambrose ? where she tried
A cure more sweet than Gilead's pharmacy ?
And did she read him his rich destiny
In that dark holt that blurs the white hill-side ?
The brook, I trow, is bound in frosty bands,
Where Rover plash'd, and, venting merry tones,
Trod in the summer-light that swam the sands ;
Wliile, sportive in their bliss, those plighted ones
Confused his eager car with dropping stones,
Piut evermore reclasp'd their ha])py hands.
Or a Winter-Grove with a Summer-Memory.
Seldom we see such crude cold winter times ;
Yon sooty patch upon the snow-clad weald —
Is that, indeed, the bower of honied limes ?
The balm-grove, where a ten-years' wound was heal'd ?
Where Annie sat with Ambrose ? where she tried
A cure more sweet than Gilead's pharmacy ?
And did she read him his rich destiny
In that dark holt that blurs the white hill-side ?
The brook, I trow, is bound in frosty bands,
Where Rover plash'd, and, venting merry tones,
Trod in the summer-light that swam the sands ;
Wliile, sportive in their bliss, those plighted ones
Confused his eager car with dropping stones,
Piut evermore reclasp'd their ha])py hands.