Snow Storm

I hear the wintry wind again,
    I see the blinding snow,
    Pil'd high, by eddying winds, in heaps,
    No matter where I go.

    The storm is raging hard, without;
    But let us not complain,
    For fiercely tho' it rages now,
    A calm will come again.

    And, though the wildly raging storm
    Makes all things bleak and bare,
    Beside the fire we brave it well,
    And closer draw our chair.

    In social fellowship, our hearts
    With kindly thoughts grow warm;
    Then is there not a pleasant side,
    E'en to a raging storm?

    And when the angry storm has calm'd,
    As ev'ry storm must do,
    Then, sure, the tempest's handiwork,
    Has pleasant features, too.

    An artist's eye would look around,
    Upon these calmer days,
    And view the pure white heaps of snow,
    With pleas'd and puzzl'd gaze.

    Like purest marble, deftly carv'd,
    They stretch o'er vale and hill,
    Fair monuments, not made by man,
    But rear'd by nature's skill.

    The sweeping curve, the graceful arch,
    The line so firm and free;
    A skilful sculptor well might say:
    "Can this teach aught to me?"

    The trees are rob'd in purest white,
    And gleaming atoms shine
    From out the snow, beneath the sun,
    Like stones from Ophir's mine.

    The merry shouts of busy men
    Sound, as they dig the snow;
    And, when the way is clear, the bells
    With joyful jingle, go.

    Then who shall say the tempest's work
    Brings more of pain than joy;
    Or that the evil things, to us
    Are pain, without alloy?

Smile and Sigh

 A smile because the nights are short!

 And every morning brings such pleasure

 Of sweet love-making, harmless sport:

 Love, that makes and finds its treasure;

 Love, treasure without measure.

A sigh because the days are long!

Long long these days that pass in sighing,

A burden saddens every song:

While time lags who should be flying,

We live who would be dying.

Winter Tale

Yesterday the fields were only grey with scattered snow,
And now the longest grass-leaves hardly emerge;
Yet her deep footsteps mark the snow, and go
On towards the pines at the hills' white verge.

I cannot see her, since the mist's white scarf
Obscures the dark wood and the dull orange sky;
But she's waiting, I know, impatient and cold, half
Sobs struggling into her frosty sigh.

Why does she come so promptly, when she must know
That she's only the nearer to the inevitable farewell;
The hill is steep, on the snow my steps are slow - 
Why does she come, when she knows what I have to tell?