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Have the broad eyelids of the morn beheld thee ?
The night has no eve, Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion
And the day has no morning; Support thy throne ? O, look with pity down
Cold winter gives warning. On erring, guilty man ; not in thy names
The rivers run chill ; Of terror clad ; not with those thunders armed
The red sun is sinking; That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appalled
And I am grown old, The scattered tribes ; thou hast a gentler voice,
And life is fast shrinking;
Here's enow for sad thinking!
The warm sun is failing ; the bleak wind is A mansion fair and spacious for its guests,
wailing; And all replete with wonders. Let me here,
The bare boughs are sighing; the pale flowers Content and grateful, wait the appointed time,
And the Year
On the earth, her death-bed, in shroud of leaves Shall stand unveiled, and to my ravished sense
dead, Unlock the glories of the world unknown.
Come, months, come away,
Follow the bier
Of the dead, cold Year,
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The latter rain, it falls in anxious haste Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, The chill rain is falling; the nipt worm is Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste
crawling; As if it would each root's lost strength repair ; The rivers are swelling; the thunder is knelling But not a blade grows green as in the spring ;
For the year ; No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards The robins only mid the harvests sing, Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves ;
To his dwelling; The rain falls still, – the fruit all ripened drops,
Come, months, come away ; It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell ;
Put on white, black, and gray; The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops ;
Let your light sisters play, Each bursting pod of talents used can tell ;
Ye, follow the bier And all that once received the early rain
of the dead, cold Year, Declare to man it was not sent in vain.
And make her grave green with tear on tear. JONES VERY.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
The autumn is old ;
FROM gold to gray
Our mild sweet day
Above the sea
In its pale fire,
The village spire
The painted walls
Whereon it falls
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
So shall the truant bluebirds backward fly,
And all loved things that vanish or that die When leaves grow sear all things take sombre hue ; Return to us in some sweet By-and-By ! The wild winds waltz no inore the woodside
no moon ! In silent flocks the bluebirds southward fly.
No morn -- no noon
no dust The forests' cheeks are crimsoned o'er with shame,
— no proper time of day
No sky — no earthly view The cynic frost enlaces every lane,
No distance looking blue — The ground with scarlet blushes is aflame !
No road - no street no“ t'other side the The one we love grows lustrous-eyed and sad,
way" – With sympathy too thoughtful to be glad,
No end to any Row – While all the colors round are running mad.
No indications where the Crescents go
No top to any steeple The sunbeams kiss askant the sombre hill,
No recognitions of familiar people — The naked woodbine climbs the window-sill,
No courtesies for showing 'em -
No knowing 'em !
- no locomotion, The ripened nuts drop downward day by day,
No inkling of the way
no notionSounding the hollow tocsin of decay,
“No go” — by land or ocean — And bandit squirrels smuggle them away.
No mail - no postVague sighs and scents pervade the atmosphere,
No news from any foreign coast. Sounds of invisible stirrings hum the ear,
No park — no ring — no afternoon gentility
No company The morning's lash reveals a frozen tear.
- no nobility
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, The hermit mountains gird themselves with mail, No comfortable feel in any memberMocking the threshers with an echo flail, No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, The while the afternoons grow crisp and pale.
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
SUMMER joys are o'er ;
Flowerets bloom no more,
Wintry winds are sweeping; Tread lightly where the dainty violets blew,
Through the snow-drifts peeping, Where the spring winds their soft eyes open flew;
Cheerful evergreen Safely they sleep the churlish winter through.
Rarely now is seen. Though all life's portals are indiced with woe,
Now no plumed throng And frozen pearls are all the world can show,
Charms the wood with song ; Feel ! Nature's breath is warm beneath the snow.
Ice-bound trees are glittering;
Merry snow-birds, twittering, Look up ! dear mourners ! Still the blue expanse,
Fondly strive to cheer Serenely tender, bends to catch thy glance,
Scenes so cold and drear. Within thy tears sibyllic sunbeams dance !
Winter, still I see With blooms full-sappedagain will smile the land.
Many charms in thee, The fall is but the folding of His hand,
Love thy chilly greeting, Anon with fuller glories to expand.
Snow-storms fiercely beating,
And the dear delights The dumb heart hid beneath the pulseless tree
Of the long, long nights. Will throb again; and then the torpid bee
LUDWIG HÖLTY (German). Translation of Upon the ear will drone his drowsy glee.
CHARLES T. BROOKS.
THE WINTER MORNING WALK."
Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call
And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood,
The scattered grain, and thievishly resolved Resemble most some city in a blaze,
To escape the impending famine, often scared Seen through the leasless wood. His slanting ray As oft return, a pert voracious kind. Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,
Clean riddance quickly made, one only care And, tingeing all with his own rosy hue, Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, From every herb and every spiry blade
Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. To sad necessity, the cock foregoes Mine, spindling into longitude immense, His wonted strut, and, wading at their head In spite of gravity, and sage remark
With well-considered steps, seems to resent That I myself am but a fleeting shade,
His altered gait and stateliness retrenched. Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance How find the myriads, that in summer cheer I view the muscular proportioned limb
The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair, Due sustenance, or where subsist they now? As they designed to mock
at my side
Earth yields them naught; the imprisoned worm Take step for step ; and, as I near approach
is safe The cottage, walk along the plastered wall, Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs Preposterous sight! the legs without the man. Lie covered close ; and berry-bearing thorns, The verdure of the plain lies buried deep That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose), Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents, Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest, The long protracted rigor of the year Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine
Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad,
holes And, fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence As instinct prompts; self-buried ere they die. Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder ; not, like hungering man,
WINTER WALK AT NOON. Fretful if unsupplied ; but silent, meek, And, patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. The night was winter in his roughest mood, He from the stack carves out the accustomed load, The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft, Upon the southern side of the slant hills, His broad keen knife into the solid mass : And where the woods fence off the northern blast, Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, The season smiles, resigning all its rage, With such undeviating and even force
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue He severs it away : no needless care
Without a cloud, and white without a speck Lest storms should overset the leaning pile The dazzling splendor of the scene below. Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight.
Again the harinony comes o'er the vale ; Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned And through the trees I view the embattled tower, The cheerful haunts of men, to wield the axe Whence all the music. I again perceive And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, The soothing influence of the wafted strains, From morn to eve his solitary task.
And settle in soft musings as I tread Shaggy and lean and shrewd with pointed ears, The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. His dog attends him. Close behind his heel Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow The redbreast warbles still, but is content With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; With slender notes, and more than half supThen shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy. pressed :
Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light Now from the roost, or from the neighboring pale, From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, That tinkle in the withered leaves below.
WILLIAM COW PER.
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,
WHEN ICICLES HANG BY THE WALL. Charms more than silence. Meditation here May think down hours to moments. Here the
FROM "LOVE'S LABOR 'S LOST." heart May give a useful lesson to the head,
When icicles hang by the wall, And Learning wiser grow without his books.
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow, And the sky saddens with the gathered storm.
And Marian's nose looks red and raw, Through the hushed air the whitening shower
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, descends At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 'T is brightness all ; save where the new snow
melts Along the mazy current. Low the woods Bow their hoar head ; and, ere the languid sun
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Against the window beats ; then, brisk, alights Curves his white bastions with projected roof On the warm hearth ; then, hopping o'er the Round every windward stake or tree or door ; floor,
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work Eyes all the smiling family askance,
So fanciful, so savage ; naught cares he And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is : For number or proportion. Mockingly, Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Though timorous of heart, and hard beset Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate By death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs, | A tapering turret overtops the work. And more unpitying man, the garden seeks, And when his hours are numbered, and the world Urged on hy fearless Want. The bleating kind is all his own, retiring as he were not, Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art earth,
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dispersed, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. The frolic architecture of the snow.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
But the hurrying host that flew between
The cloud and the water no more is seen; Stand here by my side and turn, I pray,
Flake after flake On the lake below thy gentle eyes ;
At rest in the dark and silent lake. The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray,
WILLIAH CULLEN BRYANT. And dark and silent the water lies ; And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow;
SNOW. - A WINTER SKETCH. Flake after flake They sink in the dark and silent lake.
The blessed morn has come again ;
The early gray
Taps at the slumberer's window-pane,
And seems to say, Some hover awhile in air, and some
Break, break from the enchanter's chain, Rush prone from the sky like summer hail.
'T is winter, yet there is no sound
Along the air Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.
Of winds along their battle-ground; Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud,
But gently there Come floating downward in airy play,
The snow is falling, — all around
How fair, how fair !
Out of the bosom of the Air, And some, as on tender wings they glide
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Are joined in their fall, and, side by side,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Come clinging along their unsteady way ;
Silent and soft and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make Lo ! while we are gazing, in swifter haste
In the white countenance confession, Stream down the snows, till the air is white,
The troubled sky reveals As, myriads by myriads madly chased,
The grief it feels. They fling themselves from their shadowy height.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded ;
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
Who were for a time, and now are not ;
A SNOW-STORM. That glisten a moment and then are lost,
Flake after flake, All lost in the dark and silent lake. Yet look again, for the clouds divide ;
'T is a fearful night in the winter time, A gleam of blue on the water lies ;
As cold as it ever can be ; And far away, on the mountain-side,
The roar of the blast is heard like the chime A sunbeam falls from the opening skies.
Of the waves on an angry sea.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER