 | Poems |  |
ASLEEP.
In summer-time how fair it showed!—
My garden by the village road,
Where fiery stalks of blossom glowed,
And roses softly blushed;
With azure spires, and garlands white,
Pale heliotrope, the sun's delight,
And odors that perfumed the night
Where'er the south-wind rushed.
My garden by the village road,
Where fiery stalks of blossom glowed,
And roses softly blushed;
With azure spires, and garlands white,
Pale heliotrope, the sun's delight,
And odors that perfumed the night
Where'er the south-wind rushed.
There solemn purple pansies stood,
Gay tulips red with floral blood,
And wild things fresh from field and wood,
Alive with dainty grace.
Deep heaven-blue bells of columbine,
The darkly mystic passion-vine,
And clematis, that loves to twine,
Bedecked that happy place.
Gay tulips red with floral blood,
And wild things fresh from field and wood,
Alive with dainty grace.
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The darkly mystic passion-vine,
And clematis, that loves to twine,
Bedecked that happy place.
Beneath the strong unclouded blaze
Of long and fervent summer days
Their colors smote the passing gaze,
And dazzled every eye.
Their cups of scented honey-dew
Charmed all the bees that o'er them flew,
And butterflies of radiant hue
Paused as they floated by.
Of long and fervent summer days
Their colors smote the passing gaze,
And dazzled every eye.
Their cups of scented honey-dew
Charmed all the bees that o'er them flew,
And butterflies of radiant hue
Paused as they floated by.
Now falls a cloud of sailing snow,
The bitter winds of winter blow,
No blossom dares its cup to show—
Earth folds them in her breast;
A shroud of white, a virgin pall,
Is slowly, softly, hiding all;
In vain shall any sweet wind call
To break their silent rest.
The bitter winds of winter blow,
No blossom dares its cup to show—
Earth folds them in her breast;
A shroud of white, a virgin pall,
Is slowly, softly, hiding all;
In vain shall any sweet wind call
To break their silent rest.
My garden is a vanished dream,
Dead in the waning moon's cold beam,
Clear icicles above it gleam;
And yet—I know not how—
My flowers will hear the dropping rain
When Spring reneweth hill and plain,
And then it shall be mine again:
It is God's garden now.
Dead in the waning moon's cold beam,
Clear icicles above it gleam;
And yet—I know not how—
My flowers will hear the dropping rain
When Spring reneweth hill and plain,
And then it shall be mine again:
It is God's garden now.
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