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 | Collected poems of Herman Melville |  |
260
3
While snow lingered under the fir,
Loth to melt from embrace of the earth,
And ashy red embers of logs
In moonlight dozed on the hearth;
And in cage by the window sun-warmed
Our bird was enheartened to song;
It was then that, as yearly before,
By the self-same foot-path along,
She drew to the weather-beat door
That was sunned thro' the skeleton-tree:
Nothing she said, but seemed to say—
“Old folks, aren't ye glad to see me!”
And tears brimmed our eyes—bless the day!
Loth to melt from embrace of the earth,
And ashy red embers of logs
In moonlight dozed on the hearth;
And in cage by the window sun-warmed
Our bird was enheartened to song;
It was then that, as yearly before,
By the self-same foot-path along,
She drew to the weather-beat door
That was sunned thro' the skeleton-tree:
Nothing she said, but seemed to say—
“Old folks, aren't ye glad to see me!”
And tears brimmed our eyes—bless the day!
Then she turned; revisited in sort—
She was here—she was there,
Peeping eager everywhere,
Like one who revisits scenes never forgot.
She was here—she was there,
Peeping eager everywhere,
Like one who revisits scenes never forgot.
| Collected poems of Herman Melville | |