Poems (Eliza Gabriella Lewis)/"Winter with snow flakes on his hoary brow"
"WINTER, WITH SNOW-FLAKES ON HIS HOARY BROW."
The voice of the Frost-King is on the breeze:
He comes!—wo! wo! for the leafy trees!
They mourn, for his breath is scatt'ring the pride
Of their summer apparel on every side.
The Violet and Columbine both are dead,
And the Cardinal's gone from its marshy bed,—
The Willow is weeping above their tomb,
For the lost ones were fair in their summer bloom.
'Tis Winter! dread Winter!—I know him now—
The snow-flakes are thick on his aching brow;
He exults o'er the autumn, whose early death
Was caused by the cold from his icy breath.
Nay! ring not thy sleigh-bells—I will not go!
Your sled may glide on,—I hate the snow.
You have swept all my trees of their glorious hues,
You have frozen the twilight's fragrant dews,
The locust and humming bird both are away—
The land is desolate I—why should I stay?
Was it an echo, borne on the breeze,
As it murmured in sadness, thro' leafless trees?
Was it that voiceless tone that said,
Stay I—And I answered, with whom?—the dead?
The dead! their remembrance and grief may die,
As the flowers of the Summer forgotten lie;
But the buried thoughts we had deemed at rest,
Burst from their secret tomb—the breast;—
And they whisper, (those spirits of happier hours,)
Heed not the faded leaves and flowers!
Come with us to the lonely wood,
Nourish us fondly in solitude;
Joy we may give, tho' we have no spell
To bring back the past ye have lov'd so well:
Stay! And hope brightened the wintry sky,
With so rosy a hue—that—could I deny?
He comes!—wo! wo! for the leafy trees!
They mourn, for his breath is scatt'ring the pride
Of their summer apparel on every side.
The Violet and Columbine both are dead,
And the Cardinal's gone from its marshy bed,—
The Willow is weeping above their tomb,
For the lost ones were fair in their summer bloom.
'Tis Winter! dread Winter!—I know him now—
The snow-flakes are thick on his aching brow;
He exults o'er the autumn, whose early death
Was caused by the cold from his icy breath.
Nay! ring not thy sleigh-bells—I will not go!
Your sled may glide on,—I hate the snow.
You have swept all my trees of their glorious hues,
You have frozen the twilight's fragrant dews,
The locust and humming bird both are away—
The land is desolate I—why should I stay?
Was it an echo, borne on the breeze,
As it murmured in sadness, thro' leafless trees?
Was it that voiceless tone that said,
Stay I—And I answered, with whom?—the dead?
The dead! their remembrance and grief may die,
As the flowers of the Summer forgotten lie;
But the buried thoughts we had deemed at rest,
Burst from their secret tomb—the breast;—
And they whisper, (those spirits of happier hours,)
Heed not the faded leaves and flowers!
Come with us to the lonely wood,
Nourish us fondly in solitude;
Joy we may give, tho' we have no spell
To bring back the past ye have lov'd so well:
Stay! And hope brightened the wintry sky,
With so rosy a hue—that—could I deny?