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From “Snow-Bound”
THE SUN that brief December day | |
| Rose cheerless over hills of gray, | |
| And, darkly circled, gave at noon | |
| A sadder light than waning moon. | |
| Slow tracing down the thickening sky | 5 |
| Its mute and ominous prophecy, | |
| A portent seeming less than threat, | |
| It sank from sight before it set. | |
| A chill no coat, however stout, | |
| Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, | 10 |
| A hard, dull bitterness of cold, | |
| That checked, mid-vein, the circling race | |
| Of life-blood in the sharpened face, | |
| The coming of the snow-storm told. | |
| The wind blew east: we heard the roar | 15 |
| Of Ocean on his wintry shore, | |
| And felt the strong pulse throbbing there | |
| Beat with low rhythm our inland air. * * * * * | |
| Unwarmed by any sunset light | |
| The gray day darkened into night, | 20 |
| A night made hoary with the swarm | |
| And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, | |
| As zigzag wavering to and fro | |
| Crossed and recrossed the wingèd snow: | |
| And ere the early bedtime came | 25 |
| The white drift piled the window-frame, | |
| And through the glass the clothes-line posts | |
| Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. | |
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| So all night long the storm roared on: | |
| The morning broke without a sun; | 30 |
| In tiny spherule traced with lines | |
| Of Nature’s geometric signs, | |
| In starry flake, and pellicle, | |
| All day the hoary meteor fell; | |
| And, when the second morning shone, | 35 |
| We looked upon a world unknown, | |
| On nothing we could call our own. | |
| Around the glistening wonder bent | |
| The blue walls of the firmament, | |
| No cloud above, no earth below,— | 40 |
| A universe of sky and snow! * * * * * | |
| As night drew on, and, from the crest | |
| Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, | |
| The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank | |
| From sight beneath the smothering bank, | 45 |
| We piled, with care, our nightly stack | |
| Of wood against the chimney-back,— | |
| The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, | |
| And on its top the stout back-stick; | |
| The knotty forestick laid apart, | 50 |
| And filled between with curious art | |
| The ragged brush; then, hovering near, | |
| We watched the first red blaze appear, | |
| Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam | |
| On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, | 55 |
| Until the old, rude-furnished room | |
| Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom; * * * * * | |
| Shut in from all the world without, | |
| We sat the clean-winged hearth about, | |
| Content to let the north-wind roar | 60 |
| In baffled rage at pane and door | |
| While the red logs before us beat | |
| The frost-line back with tropic heat; | |
| And ever, when a louder blast | |
| Shook beam and rafter as it passed, | 65 |
| The merrier up its roaring draught | |
| The great throat of the chimney laughed; | |
| The house-dog on his paws outspread | |
| Laid to the fire his drowsy head, | |
| The cat’s dark silhouette on the wall | 70 |
| A couchant tiger’s seemed to fall; | |
| And, for the winter fireside meet, | |
| Between the andirons’ straddling feet, | |
| The mug of cider simmered slow, | |
| The apples sputtered in a row, | 75 |
| And, close at hand the basket stood | |
| With nuts from brown October’s wood. | |
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| What matter how the night behaved? | |
| What matter how the north-wind raved? | |
| Blow high, blow low, not all its snow | 80 |
| Could quench our hearth-fire’s ruddy glow. | |
| O Time and Change!—with hair as gray | |
| As was my sire’s that wintry day, | |
| How strange it seems, with so much gone | |
| Of life and love, to still live on! | 85 |
| Ah, brother! only I and thou | |
| Are left of all that circle now,— | |
| The dear home faces whereupon | |
| That fitful firelight paled and shone. | |
| Henceforward, listen as we will, | 90 |
| The voices of that hearth are still; | |
| Look where we may, the wide earth o’er, | |
| Those lighted faces smile no more. | |
| We tread the paths their feet have worn, | |
| We sit beneath their orchard-trees, | 95 |
| We hear, like them, the hum of bees | |
| And rustle of the bladed corn; | |
| We turn the pages that they read, | |
| Their written words we linger o’er, | |
| But in the sun they cast no shade, | 100 |
| No voice is heard, no sign is made, | |
| No step is on the conscious floor! | |
| Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust, | |
| (Since He who knows our need is just,) | |
| That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. | 105 |
| Alas for him who never sees | |
| The stars shine through his cypress-trees! | |
| Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, | |
| Nor looks to see the breaking day | |
| Across the mournful marbles play! | 110 |
| Who hath not learned, in hours of faith, | |
| The truth to flesh and sense unknown, | |
| That Life is ever lord of Death, | |
| And Love can never lose its own! | |
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