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the seasons.
The door's unclosed, young forms appear, with health and beauty fraught,
And with glad voices interrupt the wandering stream of thought;
Not all bereft, she feels life's tale cannot be yet half told—
Oh! could she linger here—but Time his pinions may not fold.
And with glad voices interrupt the wandering stream of thought;
Not all bereft, she feels life's tale cannot be yet half told—
Oh! could she linger here—but Time his pinions may not fold.
No. IV. Winter: Old Age.
The fast-descending snow-flakes whirl am1d the darkening air,
Swept by the keen and gusty winds o'er scenes of verdure bare;
Far as the wandering eye can pierce the drifting mazes through,
One desert-like unbroken waste spreads white before the view.
The cottage now is scarce defined, amidst its background snow,
Save by the trees which to the gale writhe wildly to and fro.
Mute lies the stream—the hand of frost hath bound each bubbling spring,
And to each spray that kissed its surf, the glistening ice-spears cling.
Swept by the keen and gusty winds o'er scenes of verdure bare;
Far as the wandering eye can pierce the drifting mazes through,
One desert-like unbroken waste spreads white before the view.
The cottage now is scarce defined, amidst its background snow,
Save by the trees which to the gale writhe wildly to and fro.
Mute lies the stream—the hand of frost hath bound each bubbling spring,
And to each spray that kissed its surf, the glistening ice-spears cling.
