Explore "Winter" by Madison Cawein on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The flute, whence Autumn's misty finger-tips / Drew music -- ripening the pinched kernels in / The burly chestnut and the chinquapin, / Red-rounding-out the oval haws and hips, -- / Now Winter crushes to his stormy lips / And surly songs whistle around his chin: / Now the wild days and wilder nights begin / When, at the eaves, the crooked icicle drips. / Thy songs, O Autumn, are not lost so soon! / Still dwells a memory in thy hollow flute, / Which, unto Winter's masculine airs, doth give / Thy own creative qualities of tune, / By which we see each bough bend white with fruit, / Each bush with bloom, in snow commemorative.