Poems (Stephens)/Under the snow

by Eliza Jane Stephens

UNDER THE SNOW.

The flowers that made the meadow bright,
The buttercups and daisies white,
The violets of deepest blue,
The fragrant crimson clovers too,
Where are they now? I see them not;
The bee no longer haunts the spot,
Nor butterfly yet lingers there
To dine on such delicious fare;
But o'er the valley, o'er the hill,
The wintry wind sounds loud and chill,
And where the sweetest flowers did blow,
'Tis laying now the drifts of snow.

The forest, oh, how grand a sight
When bathed in the summer's golden light,
When all so wondrously arrayed
In leaves of every form and shade;
The mighty oak, the mountain's pride,
Close by the quivering Aspen's side;
The tasseled birch, the cone-clad pine,
Arranged in harmony divine—
But now their lofty branches rise
In mournful grandeur to the skies;
They seem as if in silent woe,
Their leaves are lying 'neath the snow.

'Twould seem the streamlet had a voice,
That bade each careful heart rejoice,
As gliding on through grassy meads,
O'er shining sands, through tangled weeds,
Now dark and slow, then swift and bright,
First touched by shade, then bathed in light.
But making sweetest music ever,
'Till lost in some wild flowing river;
Today we hear no babbling brook,
Nor on its waters gladly look,
The ice has stopped its gentle flow,
It lies concealed beneath the snow.

How bright the hopes we had last year,
Our path seemed smooth, our sky how clear
Those hopes on airy wings have flown,
Those cherished dreams, alas, are gone,
But spring will come with ready hand
Will wave her beauty giving wand,
And meadow flowers again will blow,
And forest leaves all brightly glow;
And so to us new hopes will come,
As bright as those already gone,
And then our tears will cease to flow
O'er hopes as dead as flow'rs 'neath snow.