 | The Triangular Society |  |
WINTER TIME.
I cannot touch the cheerful strain
My summer used to know,
My soul is barren as the plain
Beneath December's snow;
Its gorgeous hues are dim and pale,
Its fountain-voices dumb;
Dead blossoms drift before the gale,—
My winter time has come.
My summer used to know,
My soul is barren as the plain
Beneath December's snow;
Its gorgeous hues are dim and pale,
Its fountain-voices dumb;
Dead blossoms drift before the gale,—
My winter time has come.
The soaring eagle cannot stay
Forever on the wing,
The dew-drops cannot shine all day,
Nor thrushes always sing.
The flowers, in field and garden-plot,
Faint as the long days roll;
All things seek rest—and wherefore not
A feeble human soul?
Forever on the wing,
The dew-drops cannot shine all day,
Nor thrushes always sing.
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Faint as the long days roll;
All things seek rest—and wherefore not
A feeble human soul?
You do not chide when Nature's hand,
Bidding her toilers cease,
Spreads wide across the dreary land
White robes of rest and peace;
Then do not blame as waste and crime
My dead and fruitless hours,
For souls must have their winter time
As well as streams and flowers.
Bidding her toilers cease,
Spreads wide across the dreary land
White robes of rest and peace;
Then do not blame as waste and crime
My dead and fruitless hours,
For souls must have their winter time
As well as streams and flowers.
You do not seek anemones
In January's dawn,
Nor ask for June's sweet harmonies
When all the birds are gone;
Then do not plead for me to sing
A summer melody,
When, though the world may call it spring,
'T is winter time with me.
In January's dawn,
Nor ask for June's sweet harmonies
When all the birds are gone;
Then do not plead for me to sing
A summer melody,
When, though the world may call it spring,
'T is winter time with me.
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