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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537996" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Winter Piece</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The time has been that these wild solitudes,<br>Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me<br>Oftener than now; and when the ills of life<br>Had chafed my spirit--when the unsteady pulse<br>Beat with strange flutterings--I would wander forth<br>And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path<br>Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills,<br>The quiet dells retiring far between,<br>With gentle invitation to explore<br>Their windings, were a calm society<br>That talked with me and soothed me. Then the chant<br>Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress<br>Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget<br>The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began<br>To gather simples by the fountain's brink,<br>And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood<br>In nature's loneliness, I was with one<br>With whom I early grew familiar, one<br>Who never had a frown for me, whose voice<br>Never rebuked me for the hours I stole<br>From cares I loved not, but of which the world<br>Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked<br>The bleak November winds, and smote the woods,<br>And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades,<br>That met above the merry rivulet,<br>Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still,--they seemed<br>Like old companions in adversity.<br>Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook,<br>Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay<br>As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar,<br>The village with its spires, the path of streams,<br>And dim receding valleys, hid before<br>By interposing trees, lay visible<br>Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts<br>Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come<br>Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts,<br>Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow,<br>And all was white. The pure keen air abroad,<br>Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard<br>Love-call of bird, nor merry hum of bee,<br>Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept<br>Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds,<br>That lay along the boughs, instinct with life,<br>Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring,<br>Feared not the piercing spirit of the North.<br>The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough,<br>And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent<br>Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry<br>A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves,<br>The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow<br>The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track<br>Of fox, and the racoon's broad path, were there,<br>Crossing each other. From his hollow tree,<br>The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts<br>Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway<br>Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But Winter has yet brighter scenes,--he boasts<br>Splendours beyond what gorgeous Summer knows;<br>Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods<br>All flushed with many hues. Come when the rains<br>Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice;<br>While the slant sun of February pours<br>Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach!<br>The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,<br>And the broad arching portals of the grove<br>Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunks<br>Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,<br>Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,<br>Is studded with its trembling water-drops,<br>That stream with rainbow radiance as they move.<br>But round the parent stem the long low boughs<br>Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbours hide<br>The glassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spot<br>The spacious cavern of some virgin mine,<br>Deep in the womb of earth--where the gems grow,<br>And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud<br>With amethyst and topaz--and the place<br>Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam<br>That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall<br>Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night,<br>And fades not in the glory of the sun;--<br>Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts<br>And crossing arches; and fantastic aisles<br>Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost<br>Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye,--<br>Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault;<br>There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud<br>Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams<br>Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose,<br>And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air,<br>And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light;<br>Light without shade. But all shall pass away<br>With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks,<br>Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound<br>Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve<br>Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams<br>Are just set free, and milder suns melt off<br>The plashy snow, save only the firm drift<br>In the deep glen or the close shade of pines,--<br>'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke<br>Roll up among the maples of the hill,<br>Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakes<br>The shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph,<br>That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops,<br>Falls, mid the golden brightness of the morn,<br>Is gathered in with brimming pails, and oft,<br>Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axe<br>Makes the woods ring. Along the quiet air,<br>Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds,<br>Such as you see in summer, and the winds<br>Scarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft,<br>Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone<br>The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye<br>Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at--<br>Startling the loiterer in the naked groves<br>With unexpected beauty, for the time<br>Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar.<br>And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oft<br>Muster their wrath again, and rapid clouds<br>Shade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earth<br>Shall fall their volleyed stores rounded like hail,<br>And white like snow, and the loud North again<br>Shall buffet the vexed forest in his rage.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Cullen+Bryant">William Cullen Bryant</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537996" data-title="A Winter Piece de William Cullen Bryant" data-description="The time has been that these wild solitudes,
Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me
Oftener than now; and when the ills of life
Had chafed my spirit--when the unsteady pulse
Beat with strange flutterings--I would wander forth
And seek the woods. T..."></div>
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