A sudden rush from the stairway, They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; They almost devour me with kisses, In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! Is not a match for you all! I have you fast in my fortress, And there will I keep you forever, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, ? O SNOW-FLAKES. UT of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow. A DAY OF SUNSHINE. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, The grief it feels. This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 83 A DAY OF SUNSHINE. GIFT of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play; Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be! Through every fibre of my brain, I hear the wind among the trees And over me unrolls on high Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, Its craggy summits white with drifts. Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms O Life and Love! O happy throng SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. ABOR with what zeal we will, L Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still By the bedside, on the stair, Waits, and will not go away; Waits, and will not be gainsaid; By the cares of yesterday Each to-day is heavier made; Till at length the burden seems Greater than our strength can bear, Heavy as the weight of dreams, Pressing on us everywhere. WEARINESS. And we stand from day to day, 85 O WEARINESS. LITTLE feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, O little hands! that, weak or strong, Have still so long to give or ask; Am weary, thinking of your task. O little hearts! that throb and beat Such limitless and strong desires; Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls! as pure and white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine; How lurid looks this soul of mine! |