The Gold-Gated West/Snowdrift

by Samuel Leonidas Simpson

SNOWDRIFT

Tenderly, patiently falling, the snow
Whitens the gloaming, and in the street's glow
Spectrally beautiful, drifts to the earth—
Pale in life's brightness, and still in its mirth;
Swarming and settling like spirits of bees
Blown from the blossoms of song-haunted trees—
Blown with the petals of dreams we have known,
Rosy with heart dews of days that are gone.

Spirits of flowers, and spectres of bees—
Emblems of toil and its guerdon are these—
Thrown to us silently—cold, and so fair—
From the gardens that gleam in the regions of air;
As if the high heavens that gathered our sighs
Wept for the promise the future denies;—
Dreamingly lifted the glowing bouquet,
Sweet with life's longing, and tossed it away!

Soft as the touch of the white-handed moon
Wreathing the world in a twilight of June,
Gently and lovingly hastens the snow—
Weaving a veil for dead nature below;
Kissing the stains from the hoof-beaten street,
Folding the town in a slumber so sweet,
Surely the stars, in their helmets of gold,
Pensively linger and love to behold.

Thus our endeavor may fail of its prize—
Hope and ambition drop cold from our skies;
Yet on the pathway, so lonely and drear,
Rugged with failure and clouded by fear,
Spirits of beauty come out of defeat,
Cover life's sorrows and shield its retreat—
Healing the heart as the fall of the snow
Brightens the darkness of winter below.

O, when the Angel of Silence has brushed
Me with his wings, and this pining is hushed,
Tenderly, graciously, light as the snow,
Fall the kind mention of all that I know—
Words that will cover and whiten the sod,
Folding the life that was given of God;
Wayward may be, and persistent to rove—
Restful, at last, in the glamour of love!