winter scenes in the country.
35
Falls on the window-panes as soft and still
As the light brushings of an angel's wings,
Or the sweet visitings of quiet thoughts
'Midst the wild tumult of this stormy life.
The tightened strings of nature's ceaseless harp,
Send forth a shrill and piercing melody,
As the full swell returns. The night comes on,
And sleep upon this little world of ours,
Spreads out her sheltering, healing wings; and man,—
The heaven-inspired soul of this fair earth,
The bold interpreter of nature's voice,
Giving a language even to the stars—
Unconscious of the throbbings of his heart,—
Is still; and all unheeded is the storm,
Save by the wakeful few who love the night;
Those pure and active spirits that are placed
As guards o'er wayward man; they who show forth
God's holy image on the soul impressed,
They listen to the music of the storm,
And hold high converse with the unseen world;
They wake, and watch, and pray, while others sleep.
The stormy night has passed; the eastern clouds
Glow with the morning's ray; but who shall tell
The peerless glories of this winter day?
Nature has put her jewels on, one blaze
Of sparkling light and ever-varying hues
Bursts on the enraptured sight.
The smallest twig with brilliants hangs its head;
The graceful elm and all the forest trees
As the light brushings of an angel's wings,
Or the sweet visitings of quiet thoughts
'Midst the wild tumult of this stormy life.
The tightened strings of nature's ceaseless harp,
Send forth a shrill and piercing melody,
As the full swell returns. The night comes on,
And sleep upon this little world of ours,
Spreads out her sheltering, healing wings; and man,—
The heaven-inspired soul of this fair earth,
The bold interpreter of nature's voice,
Giving a language even to the stars—
Unconscious of the throbbings of his heart,—
Is still; and all unheeded is the storm,
Save by the wakeful few who love the night;
Those pure and active spirits that are placed
As guards o'er wayward man; they who show forth
God's holy image on the soul impressed,
They listen to the music of the storm,
And hold high converse with the unseen world;
They wake, and watch, and pray, while others sleep.
The stormy night has passed; the eastern clouds
Glow with the morning's ray; but who shall tell
The peerless glories of this winter day?
Nature has put her jewels on, one blaze
Of sparkling light and ever-varying hues
Bursts on the enraptured sight.
The smallest twig with brilliants hangs its head;
The graceful elm and all the forest trees
