Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/211

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THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW.
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 The little grave was closed; the funeral trainDeparted; winter wore away; the springSteeped, with her quickening rains, the violet tufts,By fond hands planted where the maiden slept.But, after Eva's burial, never moreThe Little People of the Snow were seenBy human eye, nor ever human earHeard 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 formLeaned from their folds, and, in the icy glens,And aged woods, under enow-loaded pines,Where once they made their haunt, was emptiness.
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