On the roaring waste of ocean
Shall thy scattered waves be tossed,
'Mid the surge's rhythmic thunder
Shall thy silver tongues be lost.
O! thy glimmering rush of gladness
Mocks this turbid life of mine!
Racing to the wild Forever
Down the sloping paths of Time!
Onward ever,
Lovely river,
Softly calling to the sea;
Time that scars us,
Maims and mars us,
Leaves no track or trench on thee.
SNOWDRIFT
Tenderly, patiently falling, the snow
Whitens the gloaming, and in the street's glow
Spectrally beautiful, drifts to the earth—
Pale in life's brightness, and still in its mirth;
Swarming and settling like spirits of bees
Blown from the blossoms of song-haunted trees—
Blown with the petals of dreams we have known,
Rosy with heart dews of days that are gone.
Spirits of flowers, and spectres of bees—
Emblems of toil and its guerdon are these—
Thrown to us silently—cold, and so fair—
From the gardens that gleam in the regions of air;
As if the high heavens that gathered our sighs
Wept for the promise the future denies;—
Dreamingly lifted the glowing bouquet,
Sweet with life's longing, and tossed it away!
Soft as the touch of the white-handed moon
Wreathing the world in a twilight of June,
Gently and lovingly hastens the snow—
Weaving a veil for dead nature below;
Kissing the stains from the hoof-beaten street,
Folding the town in a slumber so sweet,
Surely the stars, in their helmets of gold,
Pensively linger and love to behold.
