 | The high-top sweeting And Other Poems |  |
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STORM.
If this November storm, that grieves
Among the dripping trees to-night,
Would only moan of fallen leaves
And frosted flowers and wintry blight,
Among the dripping trees to-night,
Would only moan of fallen leaves
And frosted flowers and wintry blight,
Would speak in plaintive prophecy
Of coming dearth and cold alone,
It might be borne, for there would be
Regret, not heart-ache, in its tone.
Of coming dearth and cold alone,
It might be borne, for there would be
Regret, not heart-ache, in its tone.
But ah, it tells of sadder things
Than Nature's gloomiest moods impart,
And in its mournful minor, sings
The hidden woes of every heart.
Than Nature's gloomiest moods impart,
And in its mournful minor, sings
The hidden woes of every heart.
And as the wild wind sobs and cries,
Long-silent voices speak again;
Dim ghosts of buried sorrows rise
To haunt us with the olden pain.
Long-silent voices speak again;
Dim ghosts of buried sorrows rise
To haunt us with the olden pain.
O Love, who, though the June departs,
Keepest thy summer sweet and warm,
Stand thou between our homesick hearts
And this unkind November storm!
Keepest thy summer sweet and warm,
Stand thou between our homesick hearts
And this unkind November storm!
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