Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/211
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THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW.
205
The little grave was closed; the funeral train
Departed; winter wore away; the spring
Steeped, with her quickening rains, the violet tufts,
By fond hands planted where the maiden slept.
But, after Eva's burial, never more
The Little People of the Snow were seen
By human eye, nor ever human ear
Heard from their lips, articulate speech again;
For a decree went forth to cut them off,
Forever, from communion with mankind.
The winter clouds, along the mountain-side,
Rolled downward toward the vale, but no fair form
Leaned from their folds, and, in the icy glens,
And aged woods, under enow-loaded pines,
Where once they made their haunt, was emptiness.
Departed; winter wore away; the spring
Steeped, with her quickening rains, the violet tufts,
By fond hands planted where the maiden slept.
But, after Eva's burial, never more
The Little People of the Snow were seen
By human eye, nor ever human ear
Heard from their lips, articulate speech again;
For a decree went forth to cut them off,
Forever, from communion with mankind.
The winter clouds, along the mountain-side,
Rolled downward toward the vale, but no fair form
Leaned from their folds, and, in the icy glens,
And aged woods, under enow-loaded pines,
Where once they made their haunt, was emptiness.