A Poison Tree

l was angry with my friend:
l told my wrath, my wrath did end.
l was angry with my foe:
l told it not, my wrath did grow.

And l water'd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And l sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
and my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole 
When the night had veil'd the pole;
In the morning glad l see
My foe outstrech'd beneath the tree


William Blake

When men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town,
Deadening, muffling, stiffling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
Silently shifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
All night it fell, and when full inches seven 
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
and all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter drawning, the strange unheavenly glare;
The eye marvelled - marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;
The ear harkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot fallling,
And the busy  morning cries came thin and spare.
Then boys I heard as they went to school, calling,
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze
Their tongues  with tasting, their hands with snowballing;
Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder,
"O look at the trees!"  they cried,  "O look at the trees!"
With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,
Following along the white deserted way,
A country company  lon dispersed asunder:
When now already the sun, in the pale display
Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.
For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil  they go:
But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber 
At the sight of the beauty that greeets them, for the charm they
have broken.

Robert Bridges ( 1844-1930)