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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

Winter Days

By Henry Abbey (1842–1911)

NOW comes the graybeard of the north;

The forests bare their rugged breasts

To every wind that wanders forth,

And, in their arms, the lonely nests

That housed the birdlings months ago

Are egged with flakes of drifted snow.

No more the robin pipes his lay

To greet the flushed advance of morn;

He sings in valleys far away;

His heart is with the south to-day;

He cannot shrill among the corn.

For all the hay and corn are down

And garnered; and the withered leaf,

Against the branches bare and brown,

Rattles; and all the days are brief.

An icy hand is on the land;

The cloudy sky is sad and gray;

But through the misty sorrow streams,

Outspreading wide, a golden ray.

And on the brook that cuts the plain

A diamond wonder is aglow,

Fairer than that which, long ago,

De Rohan staked a name to gain.