Katharine A. Ware (1797–1843)

THERE is a voice in the western breeze,

As it floats o’er spring’s young roses!

Or sighs among the blossoming trees,

Where the spirit of love reposes:

It tells of the joys of the pure and young,

Ere they wander life’s wildering paths among.

There is a voice in the summer gale,

Which breathes amid regions of bloom!

Or murmurs soft, through the dewy vale,

In moonlight’s tender gloom:

It tells of hope, unblighted yet—

And of hours, that the soul can ne’er forget!

There is a voice in the autumn blast,

That wafts the falling leaf,

When the glowing scene is fading fast—

For the hour of bloom is brief:

It tells of Life—its sure decay—

And of earthly splendors, that pass away!

There is a voice in the wintry storm,

For the blasting spirit is there—

Breathing o’er every vernal charm,

O’er all that was bright and fair;

It tells of death, as it moans around,

And the lonely hall returns the sound.

And there ’s a voice—a small, still voice,

That comes, when the storm is past—

It bids the sufferer’s heart rejoice!

In the haven of peace at last;

It tells of joys, beyond the grave,

And of Him who died a world to save!