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A LEGEND OF THE SNOW-FALL.
What sayeth the storm-wind, sighing?
It bloweth with might and main,
And its touch on my aching forehead
Cools the throbs of my deathly pain.
It tells of a grave by the hill-side,
Where the wild winds madly blow,
And a heart that is cold and pulseless,
'Neath the fall of the hurrying snow.
And I think of a time in my cabin,
By the pine-fire's flickering light,
When a hand in my own lay trembling,
The whole of a lonesome night.
And he said, “Bend over and kiss me —
O friend, thou art dearer than all!
Let me feel thy touch on my forehead,
While the cold, white snow-flakes fall!”
But my eyes were dim when I kissed him,
For well in my soul did I know
To the beautiful country of shadows
His feet would be first to go!
It bloweth with might and main,
And its touch on my aching forehead
Cools the throbs of my deathly pain.
It tells of a grave by the hill-side,
Where the wild winds madly blow,
And a heart that is cold and pulseless,
'Neath the fall of the hurrying snow.
And I think of a time in my cabin,
By the pine-fire's flickering light,
When a hand in my own lay trembling,
The whole of a lonesome night.
And he said, “Bend over and kiss me —
O friend, thou art dearer than all!
Let me feel thy touch on my forehead,
While the cold, white snow-flakes fall!”
But my eyes were dim when I kissed him,
For well in my soul did I know
To the beautiful country of shadows
His feet would be first to go!
44
The wind was aloft in the chimneys,
And the snow was aloof, like the wings
Of a cloud of descending angels,
Or the blooms of a thousand springs!
But his thoughts went back to the summer,
And followed the pleasant ways
Where our foot-steps had wandered together,
In the long, bright summer days.
His thoughts gathered flowers on the uplands,
Where he never more might stray,
Till he cried, “My thoughts, they are angels,
Baptized in eternal day!”
Then there came to his forehead a glory
By the pine-fire's flickering blaze,
As I told 'twixt my sobbings the story
We had learned in those happier days:
How the good Christ was born in a manger,
And over the storm-waves of life
Walked with majesty simple and humble,
Saying Peace to their turbulent strife!
And when he went up into Heaven,
O'er the hills of eternal snow,
He promised his children should follow
Where he had been first to go!
Then my love, rising up from the pillow,
Said low, with his head on my breast,
And the snow was aloof, like the wings
Of a cloud of descending angels,
Or the blooms of a thousand springs!
But his thoughts went back to the summer,
And followed the pleasant ways
Where our foot-steps had wandered together,
In the long, bright summer days.
His thoughts gathered flowers on the uplands,
Where he never more might stray,
Till he cried, “My thoughts, they are angels,
Baptized in eternal day!”
Then there came to his forehead a glory
By the pine-fire's flickering blaze,
As I told 'twixt my sobbings the story
We had learned in those happier days:
How the good Christ was born in a manger,
And over the storm-waves of life
Walked with majesty simple and humble,
Saying Peace to their turbulent strife!
And when he went up into Heaven,
O'er the hills of eternal snow,
He promised his children should follow
Where he had been first to go!
Then my love, rising up from the pillow,
Said low, with his head on my breast,
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“O friend, I go forth in the morning,
To the fields of Eternal rest!”
And when the gray shadows of dawning
Swept over the cabin floor,
He said, “I am weary, ah! weary,
And cannot come back any more!”
Then the golden-fringed eyelids were folded
Close over his lustrous eyes,
And I heard, 'mid the storm and the tempest,
A summons from Paradise.
'T was sweet as the sorrowful closes
Of death-hymns chanted at night,
Or the breath of the folded roses,
On the dead man's shroud of white.
And I knew, when down through the snow-flakes
I heard those sweet tones fall,
'T was the voice of a summoning angel,
And my love must obey the call!
And, alack! when there stole o'er the snow-drifts
The gold-shodden morning's tread,
The embers had faded to ashes,
And I was alone with my dead!
To the fields of Eternal rest!”
And when the gray shadows of dawning
Swept over the cabin floor,
He said, “I am weary, ah! weary,
And cannot come back any more!”
Then the golden-fringed eyelids were folded
Close over his lustrous eyes,
And I heard, 'mid the storm and the tempest,
A summons from Paradise.
'T was sweet as the sorrowful closes
Of death-hymns chanted at night,
Or the breath of the folded roses,
On the dead man's shroud of white.
And I knew, when down through the snow-flakes
I heard those sweet tones fall,
'T was the voice of a summoning angel,
And my love must obey the call!
And, alack! when there stole o'er the snow-drifts
The gold-shodden morning's tread,
The embers had faded to ashes,
And I was alone with my dead!
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