THE SNOW.
Softly, and pure as an angel's wing,
Thou floatest to earth, oh! beautiful thing;
Seeming to come from the azure bowers
With jewelled robes for this world of ours;
On the mountain high, in the valley low,
Is hailed thy coming, white sheeny snow—
A boon to gladden the hearts of all,
A wreath for the winter's festival.
The voice of childhood rings gaily out,
The joyous call, and the happy shout;
Light kindleth up in unshadowed eyes,
Joy waketh mirthful and fond replies;
The boyish feet--how they bound away!
Roaming in gladness the livelong day,
As though never a sorrow could find a part
In the new found joy of each happy heart.
