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32
WINTER-BERRIES.
No blossoms now adorn this ruined bower,Nor any leaves. The wind relentless blows
Right through the naked branches, which disclose
The mossy secret plann'd in happier hour
By some fair bird. But Winter has its dower,
And many a dainty bead and coral shows—
These clustered berries ruddier than the rose,
And gaily dancing, though the storm-clouds lower.
Thus o'er the leafless boughs bright wings still flutter,
Nor miss the blossoms mid the fruitage red;
For which sweet voices, silent now, will utter
Melodious thanks when these dark days are fled:
Oh, may the Winter of my age be found
With timely fruits of ripe experience crowned.
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