But the soul chants on what it needs must say,
In its rhythm rude, in its freeborn way,
Underneath the snow.
A DREAMER'S TALE.
IN the arm-chair in the corner,
Half content and wholly still,
Sat I, weaving idle fancies,
As a rhyming dreamer will
Setting them to sombre rhythm
As the housewife, calm and sweet,
Trod the round of daily duties
With her brave, unfalt'ring feet.
Timidly a basement-beggar
Knocked and asked for warmth and bread
Then along the stair and passage
Went the patient, steady tread.
Then I guessed the wistful glances
Bent upon the little lad;
Well I knew the fresh remembrance
On the face so fair and sad.
Out of this there grew a vision
Opposite my easy-chair,
Made by idle brain and sunshine,
Crossed with threads of daily care.