Poems (Follen)/Winter Scenes in the Country
WINTER SCENES IN THE COUNTRY.
The short, dull, rainy day drew to a close;
No gleam burst forth upon the western hills,
With smiling promise of a brighter day,
Dressing the leafless woods with golden light;
But the dense fog hung its dark curtain round,
And the unceasing rain poured like a torrent on.
The wearied inmates of the house draw near
The cheerful fire; the shutters all are closed;
A brightening look spreads round, that seems to say,
Now let the darkness and the rain prevail;
Here all is bright! How beautiful is the sound
Of the descending rain! how soft the wind
Through the wet branches of the drooping elms!
But hark! far off, beyond the sheltering hills
Is heard the gathering tempest's distant swell,
Threatening the peaceful valley ere it comes.
The stream that glided through its pebbly way
To its own sweet music, now roars hoarsely on;
The woods send forth a deep and heavy sigh;
The gentle south has ceased j the rude northwest,
Rejoicing in his strength, comes rushing forth.
The rain is changed into a driving sleet,
And when the fitful wind a moment lulls,
The feathery snow, almost inaudible,
Falls on the window-panes as soft and still
As the light brushings of an angel's wings,
Or the sweet visitings of quiet thoughts
'Midst the wild tumult of this stormy life.
The tightened strings of nature's ceaseless harp,
Send forth a shrill and piercing melody,
As the full swell returns. The night comes on,
And sleep upon this little world of ours,
Spreads out her sheltering, healing wings; and man,—
The heaven-inspired soul of this fair earth,
The bold interpreter of nature's voice,
Giving a language even to the stars—
Unconscious of the throbbings of his heart,—
Is still; and all unheeded is the storm,
Save by the wakeful few who love the night;
Those pure and active spirits that are placed
As guards o'er wayward man; they who show forth
God's holy image on the soul impressed,
They listen to the music of the storm,
And hold high converse with the unseen world;
They wake, and watch, and pray, while others sleep.
The stormy night has passed; the eastern clouds
Glow with the morning's ray; but who shall tell
The peerless glories of this winter day?
Nature has put her jewels on, one blaze
Of sparkling light and ever-varying hues
Bursts on the enraptured sight.
The smallest twig with brilliants hangs its head;
The graceful elm and all the forest trees
Have on a crystal coat of mail, and seem
All decked and tricked out for a holiday,
And every stone shines in its wreath of gems.
The pert, familiar robin, as he flies
From spray to spray, showers diamonds around,
And moves in rainbow light where'er he goes.
The universe looks glad; but words are vain,
To paint the wonders of the splendid show.
The heart exults with uncontrolled delight.
The glorious pageant slowly moves away,
As the sun sinks behind the western hills.
So fancy, for a short and fleeting day,
May shed upon the cold and barren earth
Her bright enchantments and her dazzling hues';
And thus they melt and fade away, and leave
A cold and dull reality behind.
But see where in the clear, unclouded sky,
The crescent moon, with calm and sweet rebuke,
Doth charm away the spirit of complaint.
Her tender light falls on the snow-clad hills,
Like the pure thoughts that angels might bestow
Upon this world of beauty, and of sin,
That mingle not with that whereon they rest;—
So should immortal spirits dwell below.
There is a holy influence in the moon,
And in the countless hosts of silent stars,
The heart cannot resist: its passions sleep,
And all is still; save that which shall awake
When all this vast and fair creation sleeps.
No gleam burst forth upon the western hills,
With smiling promise of a brighter day,
Dressing the leafless woods with golden light;
But the dense fog hung its dark curtain round,
And the unceasing rain poured like a torrent on.
The wearied inmates of the house draw near
The cheerful fire; the shutters all are closed;
A brightening look spreads round, that seems to say,
Now let the darkness and the rain prevail;
Here all is bright! How beautiful is the sound
Of the descending rain! how soft the wind
Through the wet branches of the drooping elms!
But hark! far off, beyond the sheltering hills
Is heard the gathering tempest's distant swell,
Threatening the peaceful valley ere it comes.
The stream that glided through its pebbly way
To its own sweet music, now roars hoarsely on;
The woods send forth a deep and heavy sigh;
The gentle south has ceased j the rude northwest,
Rejoicing in his strength, comes rushing forth.
The rain is changed into a driving sleet,
And when the fitful wind a moment lulls,
The feathery snow, almost inaudible,
Falls on the window-panes as soft and still
As the light brushings of an angel's wings,
Or the sweet visitings of quiet thoughts
'Midst the wild tumult of this stormy life.
The tightened strings of nature's ceaseless harp,
Send forth a shrill and piercing melody,
As the full swell returns. The night comes on,
And sleep upon this little world of ours,
Spreads out her sheltering, healing wings; and man,—
The heaven-inspired soul of this fair earth,
The bold interpreter of nature's voice,
Giving a language even to the stars—
Unconscious of the throbbings of his heart,—
Is still; and all unheeded is the storm,
Save by the wakeful few who love the night;
Those pure and active spirits that are placed
As guards o'er wayward man; they who show forth
God's holy image on the soul impressed,
They listen to the music of the storm,
And hold high converse with the unseen world;
They wake, and watch, and pray, while others sleep.
The stormy night has passed; the eastern clouds
Glow with the morning's ray; but who shall tell
The peerless glories of this winter day?
Nature has put her jewels on, one blaze
Of sparkling light and ever-varying hues
Bursts on the enraptured sight.
The smallest twig with brilliants hangs its head;
The graceful elm and all the forest trees
Have on a crystal coat of mail, and seem
All decked and tricked out for a holiday,
And every stone shines in its wreath of gems.
The pert, familiar robin, as he flies
From spray to spray, showers diamonds around,
And moves in rainbow light where'er he goes.
The universe looks glad; but words are vain,
To paint the wonders of the splendid show.
The heart exults with uncontrolled delight.
The glorious pageant slowly moves away,
As the sun sinks behind the western hills.
So fancy, for a short and fleeting day,
May shed upon the cold and barren earth
Her bright enchantments and her dazzling hues';
And thus they melt and fade away, and leave
A cold and dull reality behind.
But see where in the clear, unclouded sky,
The crescent moon, with calm and sweet rebuke,
Doth charm away the spirit of complaint.
Her tender light falls on the snow-clad hills,
Like the pure thoughts that angels might bestow
Upon this world of beauty, and of sin,
That mingle not with that whereon they rest;—
So should immortal spirits dwell below.
There is a holy influence in the moon,
And in the countless hosts of silent stars,
The heart cannot resist: its passions sleep,
And all is still; save that which shall awake
When all this vast and fair creation sleeps.