A MEMORY OF WINTER.
95
I cross the sill, and sit me down
Upon the doorstep bare and brown;
I call aloud,—a gentle word,—
Name of a sweet-voiced singing-bird:
Where dwells she now? What regions hold
Her, with her hair of living gold?
Upon the doorstep bare and brown;
I call aloud,—a gentle word,—
Name of a sweet-voiced singing-bird:
Where dwells she now? What regions hold
Her, with her hair of living gold?
I call, and listen; empty sounds,
From empty halls and empty grounds,
Grate on the air, and fright the ears
Like tones the pale death-watcher hears,
And the red robin, with a cry,
Flies startled up against the sky.
From empty halls and empty grounds,
Grate on the air, and fright the ears
Like tones the pale death-watcher hears,
And the red robin, with a cry,
Flies startled up against the sky.
Three tombstones out 'neath yonder tree,—
One coral grave deep in the sea,—
A nameless mound in Indian lands!
Oh, sleep of heart! oh, rest of hands!
Oh, winter's rest, where Death is king,
Waiting the resurrection Spring!
One coral grave deep in the sea,—
A nameless mound in Indian lands!
Oh, sleep of heart! oh, rest of hands!
Oh, winter's rest, where Death is king,
Waiting the resurrection Spring!
A MEMORY OF WINTER.
All day, in flakes of saintly white,
The snow fell down;
Wrapping in ermine folds the height
Above the town;
Hanging each patient hemlock-tree
With bridal veils;
The snow fell down;
Wrapping in ermine folds the height
Above the town;
Hanging each patient hemlock-tree
With bridal veils;