Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
The Death of Winter
By Robert Burns Wilson (18501916)P
With dabbled robes upon the blurred hill-side;
Fast runs the clear cold blood, in vain he tries
With cooling breath to check the flowing tide.
Advancing through the woodland to the dell,
Anon she stops to hear the waters sing,
And call the flowers, that know her voice full well.
She stirs the dead leaves with her anxious feet;
She stoops to plant the first awakening beam,
And woos the cold Earth with warm breathings sweet.
To find me thus laid low? So fair thou art!
Let me but hear the music of thy voice;
Let me but die upon thy pitying heart.
The flowering fields, the budding trees be thine.
Grant me the pillow of thy fragrant breast;
Then come, oblivion, I no more repine.”
Whose heart hath love, and only love, to give,
Did quickly lay her full warm bosom bare
For his cold cheek, and fondly whispered “Live.”
Her sighs were mingled with each breath he drew;
And when the strong life faded, on her breast
Her own soft tears fell down like heavenly dew.
Ye fair, frail children of the woodland wide,
Ye are the fruit of that dear love which she
Did give to wounded Winter ere he died.
Some hold the blush that on her cheek did glow,
Some from her lips have caught their scarlet hue,
But more still keep the whiteness of the snow.