 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
189
FEBRUARY.
I love New England's summer-times; I hold
Them dearer far than those of sunnier climes,
But while my fingers purple with the cold,
I can't in conscience, praise its winter-times!
Them dearer far than those of sunnier climes,
But while my fingers purple with the cold,
I can't in conscience, praise its winter-times!
I watch not now the gentle autumn rain,
I hear no more its soft monotonous song,
But silently upon my window pane,
The frost is painting pictures all night long.
I hear no more its soft monotonous song,
But silently upon my window pane,
The frost is painting pictures all night long.
A February morning;—pale and faint
The dawning light seems frozen in the sky.
While with the calm endurance of a saint
I raise my window-curtain shiveringly—
The dawning light seems frozen in the sky.
While with the calm endurance of a saint
I raise my window-curtain shiveringly—
Raise it, but all in vain,—the envious frost
Forbids my gaze, though often I essay,
Till by my warm repeated breathings crossed,
Part of the fairy broidery melts away.
Forbids my gaze, though often I essay,
Till by my warm repeated breathings crossed,
Part of the fairy broidery melts away.
190
The village smokes rise through the keen blue air
Trembling and faint, as seeming half afraid;
I envy the untroubled sleepers there
Who lie and doze until the fires are made.
Trembling and faint, as seeming half afraid;
I envy the untroubled sleepers there
Who lie and doze until the fires are made.
I know 't is late,—I cannot tell the hour,—
The cold has stopped the clock, and hushed its chime,—
Potent indeed must be the frost-king's power
To palsy thus the mighty hands of time!
The cold has stopped the clock, and hushed its chime,—
Potent indeed must be the frost-king's power
To palsy thus the mighty hands of time!
Life's waking pulses throb more audibly
And mingled sounds of toil and bustle swell,—
I hear the greetings of the passers-by,
And the sharp summons of the breakfast-bell.
And mingled sounds of toil and bustle swell,—
I hear the greetings of the passers-by,
And the sharp summons of the breakfast-bell.
The day's loud strife and turmoil is begun;
A busy crowd flows through the noisy street,—
Horses stand shivering with their blankets on,
And crisp snow crackles under hurrying feet.
A busy crowd flows through the noisy street,—
Horses stand shivering with their blankets on,
And crisp snow crackles under hurrying feet.
Children are hastening school-ward, brisk and gay,
Young laughing girls, and boyhood rude and bold,
While beauty trips along the sparkling way,
Her fair cheek reddened by the biting cold.
Young laughing girls, and boyhood rude and bold,
While beauty trips along the sparkling way,
Her fair cheek reddened by the biting cold.
The day has gone at last, brief, blue and cold,
And evening shivers o'er the frozen earth;—
All who have homes, hie to their sheltering fold,—
Heaven pity those who have no home or hearth!
And evening shivers o'er the frozen earth;—
All who have homes, hie to their sheltering fold,—
Heaven pity those who have no home or hearth!
191
The fall of hoofs, the sound of hasty feet,
Become less frequent as the light declines;
The wind blows bleakly down the lonely street,
Where flickeringly the early lamp-light shines.
Become less frequent as the light declines;
The wind blows bleakly down the lonely street,
Where flickeringly the early lamp-light shines.
No longer by the sunshine gilded o'er,
The village walls rise cold and bleak and bare,
The cattle shiver at the stable door,
Their nostrils smoking in the bitter air.
The village walls rise cold and bleak and bare,
The cattle shiver at the stable door,
Their nostrils smoking in the bitter air.
There sounds no bird-song from the forest now,
No music wakened by the evening's breath,—
No murmuring rustle of the wind-stirred bough,
But all is silent as the sleep of death.
No music wakened by the evening's breath,—
No murmuring rustle of the wind-stirred bough,
But all is silent as the sleep of death.
Winter has laid his hand on Nature's lip
And she is silent, with obedience true,
And silently the new moon's silver tip
Comes slanting keenly through the frosty blue.
And she is silent, with obedience true,
And silently the new moon's silver tip
Comes slanting keenly through the frosty blue.
The welcome dark shuts out the frigid dearth
Of the white landscape, desolate and wild,
And night folds closely round the weary earth,
Like a great blanket round a sleepy child.
Of the white landscape, desolate and wild,
And night folds closely round the weary earth,
Like a great blanket round a sleepy child.
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |