The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSnowflakesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: SnowflakesAuthor: Esther Nelson KarnRelease date: August 22, 2012 [eBook #40562]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Greg Bergquist, Matthew Wheaton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SNOWFLAKES ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: SnowflakesAuthor: Esther Nelson KarnRelease date: August 22, 2012 [eBook #40562]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Greg Bergquist, Matthew Wheaton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Title: Snowflakes
Author: Esther Nelson Karn
Author: Esther Nelson Karn
Release date: August 22, 2012 [eBook #40562]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Greg Bergquist, Matthew Wheaton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SNOWFLAKES ***
BYESTHER NELSON KARN.
PHILADELPHIA:PRESS OF GEO. F. LASHER.1900.
COPYRIGHTED BYESTHER NELSON KARN.1900.
TO MY HUSBAND,S. A. KARN,WHOSE KIND ENCOURAGEMENT HAS ENABLEDME TO WRITE THIS LITTLE BOOK, THESAME IS LOVINGLY INSCRIBED.
The Author.
DANCE OF THE SNOWFLAKES.AN OCTOBER DAY.WELCOME, SWEET MAY.LAKESIDE.AUTUMN.TO A WATER-LILY.THE CYCLONE.SUNSET ON THE LAKE.TO MY WHEEL.DESPONDENCY.AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN.DANCE OF THE RIPPLES.THE PESSIMIST.THE FIRST EASTER DAWN.INDIA.WEARY.TO A VIOLET.GOLDEN DAYS.BABY MINE.LULLABY.A DAY IN JUNE.CHRISTMAS ON THE FARM.MY LITTLE BROWN-EYED SWEETHEART.I KNOW TWO EYES.CUPID'S MISTAKE.DEWEY'S VICTORY.BATTLE OF SANTIAGO BAY.THE OLD MAN'S STORY.TO MY DOG.SOMEBODY.THE HERO OF EVERY-DAY LIFE.THE CHILD'S INQUIRY.TO THE OLD TOWN CLOCK.AFTERWHILE, SOMEWHERE.
"Let's dance to the brown old earth to-night!"Cried one little flake of snow;"The autumn days have all passed by,—I'm tired of my home here in the sky."So they all agreed to go.They dressed themselves in a misty filmOf purest pearly white;Their feet were clad in velvet down,As soft and white as the filmy gownThey wore to the dance that night.Wrapped 'round with a drape of raveled gauzeWere these little fays so fair.When out from a cloud a pale star beamed,Bright diamonds sparkled, laughed, and gleamedIn their fleecy, tangled hair.All ready, so pretty a crowd were theyThat naught could their charms enhance;Then softly and quickly they sped away,For the whisp'ring wind was the cab that theyRode in to the snowflakes' dance.They flew over housetop, hilltop, dell,With dances and with delight.Though ne'er did sound of their presence tell;Wherever their fairy footsteps fell,All turned to a crystal white.In the daintiest robes the trees were dressed,That ever you'd wish to see;The wayworn traveler, he was blessed,And stroked, and kissed, and soft-caressed,By these fays in rapturous glee.Into every crevice and crack they peeped,They danced till the morning light;They left the print of their tiny feetO'er country road and city street,In frolicsome fun that night.When the rosy face of the morning sunPeeped timidly out to view,He beheld the earth, last night so brown,Arrayed in a snow-white velvet gownThat sparkled like dancing dew.
"Let's dance to the brown old earth to-night!"Cried one little flake of snow;"The autumn days have all passed by,—I'm tired of my home here in the sky."So they all agreed to go.
"Let's dance to the brown old earth to-night!"
Cried one little flake of snow;
"The autumn days have all passed by,—
I'm tired of my home here in the sky."
So they all agreed to go.
They dressed themselves in a misty filmOf purest pearly white;Their feet were clad in velvet down,As soft and white as the filmy gownThey wore to the dance that night.
They dressed themselves in a misty film
Of purest pearly white;
Their feet were clad in velvet down,
As soft and white as the filmy gown
They wore to the dance that night.
Wrapped 'round with a drape of raveled gauzeWere these little fays so fair.When out from a cloud a pale star beamed,Bright diamonds sparkled, laughed, and gleamedIn their fleecy, tangled hair.
Wrapped 'round with a drape of raveled gauze
Were these little fays so fair.
When out from a cloud a pale star beamed,
Bright diamonds sparkled, laughed, and gleamed
In their fleecy, tangled hair.
All ready, so pretty a crowd were theyThat naught could their charms enhance;Then softly and quickly they sped away,For the whisp'ring wind was the cab that theyRode in to the snowflakes' dance.
All ready, so pretty a crowd were they
That naught could their charms enhance;
Then softly and quickly they sped away,
For the whisp'ring wind was the cab that they
Rode in to the snowflakes' dance.
They flew over housetop, hilltop, dell,With dances and with delight.Though ne'er did sound of their presence tell;Wherever their fairy footsteps fell,All turned to a crystal white.
They flew over housetop, hilltop, dell,
With dances and with delight.
Though ne'er did sound of their presence tell;
Wherever their fairy footsteps fell,
All turned to a crystal white.
In the daintiest robes the trees were dressed,That ever you'd wish to see;The wayworn traveler, he was blessed,And stroked, and kissed, and soft-caressed,By these fays in rapturous glee.
In the daintiest robes the trees were dressed,
That ever you'd wish to see;
The wayworn traveler, he was blessed,
And stroked, and kissed, and soft-caressed,
By these fays in rapturous glee.
Into every crevice and crack they peeped,They danced till the morning light;They left the print of their tiny feetO'er country road and city street,In frolicsome fun that night.
Into every crevice and crack they peeped,
They danced till the morning light;
They left the print of their tiny feet
O'er country road and city street,
In frolicsome fun that night.
When the rosy face of the morning sunPeeped timidly out to view,He beheld the earth, last night so brown,Arrayed in a snow-white velvet gownThat sparkled like dancing dew.
When the rosy face of the morning sun
Peeped timidly out to view,
He beheld the earth, last night so brown,
Arrayed in a snow-white velvet gown
That sparkled like dancing dew.
'Tis sunrise o'er the eastern hills.All hail! thou lovely morn!Thy tender blush, thy mellow lightProclaim "The autumn's born."All nature is so wondrous fair,Bedecked with golden sheen—A fleecy cloudlet, here and there,In azure sky is seen.The gold and crimson leaves that giveThe trees their autumn gown,Are scattered by the gentle breezeUpon the meadows brown.Tho' summer flow'rs that were so fairHave faded, one by one,The goldenrod, in beauty rare,Her reign has just begun.The grapevines now are laden withSweet clusters, oh, so blue!And scattered o'er the orchard groundAre rosy apples, too.Oh, who could sigh for summer skies,For summer flowers and trees,For singing birds and rainbow showers,'Mid autumn scenes like these?As sinks the glorious "King of Day"Adown the western sky,He bathes the trees and hilltops inA flood of crimson dye.He sets the westland all aglowBefore he sinks away;So endeth, as a beauteous dream,This lovely autumn day.
'Tis sunrise o'er the eastern hills.All hail! thou lovely morn!Thy tender blush, thy mellow lightProclaim "The autumn's born."All nature is so wondrous fair,Bedecked with golden sheen—A fleecy cloudlet, here and there,In azure sky is seen.
'Tis sunrise o'er the eastern hills.
All hail! thou lovely morn!
Thy tender blush, thy mellow light
Proclaim "The autumn's born."
All nature is so wondrous fair,
Bedecked with golden sheen—
A fleecy cloudlet, here and there,
In azure sky is seen.
The gold and crimson leaves that giveThe trees their autumn gown,Are scattered by the gentle breezeUpon the meadows brown.Tho' summer flow'rs that were so fairHave faded, one by one,The goldenrod, in beauty rare,Her reign has just begun.
The gold and crimson leaves that give
The trees their autumn gown,
Are scattered by the gentle breeze
Upon the meadows brown.
Tho' summer flow'rs that were so fair
Have faded, one by one,
The goldenrod, in beauty rare,
Her reign has just begun.
The grapevines now are laden withSweet clusters, oh, so blue!And scattered o'er the orchard groundAre rosy apples, too.Oh, who could sigh for summer skies,For summer flowers and trees,For singing birds and rainbow showers,'Mid autumn scenes like these?
The grapevines now are laden with
Sweet clusters, oh, so blue!
And scattered o'er the orchard ground
Are rosy apples, too.
Oh, who could sigh for summer skies,
For summer flowers and trees,
For singing birds and rainbow showers,
'Mid autumn scenes like these?
As sinks the glorious "King of Day"Adown the western sky,He bathes the trees and hilltops inA flood of crimson dye.He sets the westland all aglowBefore he sinks away;So endeth, as a beauteous dream,This lovely autumn day.
As sinks the glorious "King of Day"
Adown the western sky,
He bathes the trees and hilltops in
A flood of crimson dye.
He sets the westland all aglow
Before he sinks away;
So endeth, as a beauteous dream,
This lovely autumn day.
Welcome, sweet May!With thy sunshine and showersThou'st driven awayOld winter's dark hours.Poor fellow! he seemed rather loth to depart,Till thou, with thy sunshine, compelled him to start.Welcome, sweet May!Welcome, sweet May!That bringest to me,Wherever I stray,A sweet memory,When fragrant pink blossoms hung thick overhead,And love lay asleep in a violet bed.Welcome, sweet May!Welcome, sweet May!With thy sunshine and showers,When young love awokeFrom sleep 'mong the flowers.Each year, in thy sunshine, 'neath heavens of blue,With thy sweet, fragrant blossoms he's wakened anew.Welcome, sweet May!
Welcome, sweet May!With thy sunshine and showersThou'st driven awayOld winter's dark hours.Poor fellow! he seemed rather loth to depart,Till thou, with thy sunshine, compelled him to start.Welcome, sweet May!
Welcome, sweet May!
With thy sunshine and showers
Thou'st driven away
Old winter's dark hours.
Poor fellow! he seemed rather loth to depart,
Till thou, with thy sunshine, compelled him to start.
Welcome, sweet May!
Welcome, sweet May!That bringest to me,Wherever I stray,A sweet memory,When fragrant pink blossoms hung thick overhead,And love lay asleep in a violet bed.Welcome, sweet May!
Welcome, sweet May!
That bringest to me,
Wherever I stray,
A sweet memory,
When fragrant pink blossoms hung thick overhead,
And love lay asleep in a violet bed.
Welcome, sweet May!
Welcome, sweet May!With thy sunshine and showers,When young love awokeFrom sleep 'mong the flowers.Each year, in thy sunshine, 'neath heavens of blue,With thy sweet, fragrant blossoms he's wakened anew.Welcome, sweet May!
Welcome, sweet May!
With thy sunshine and showers,
When young love awoke
From sleep 'mong the flowers.
Each year, in thy sunshine, 'neath heavens of blue,
With thy sweet, fragrant blossoms he's wakened anew.
Welcome, sweet May!
'Tis the dearest, coolest place I can find;There the locust and the wild grape entwinedFloat their dewy fragrance everO'er the dancing St. Joe riverOn the wings of the soft drowsy wind.In the coziest of homes, neat and new,Dwell its people so kind-hearted and true.Not a wall or tower highMars the tender, sunlight sky,Or shuts out the glad rainbow from view.When a dwelling for his mate is in quest,Does the robin find its shelter the best.There his sweetest notes he brings,And a flood of music flingsO'er your head as you pass 'neath his nest.There are morning-glories dripping with dew,And the dogwood blossoms hang over you.In a drowse of rapture sweetDoes this vale look up to meet,And to bask in the smile of the blue?Would your soul free from troubles be made?All its worries and its burdens unlade?From the tumult and the heatOf the noisy city street,Take yourself to the bliss of its shade.There you'll drink till you stagger as you plod,Of the sweets from the blossom-spangled sod,While your weary frame is drenched,And your thirsty soul is quenched,In a shower of the great love of God.
'Tis the dearest, coolest place I can find;There the locust and the wild grape entwinedFloat their dewy fragrance everO'er the dancing St. Joe riverOn the wings of the soft drowsy wind.
'Tis the dearest, coolest place I can find;
There the locust and the wild grape entwined
Float their dewy fragrance ever
O'er the dancing St. Joe river
On the wings of the soft drowsy wind.
In the coziest of homes, neat and new,Dwell its people so kind-hearted and true.Not a wall or tower highMars the tender, sunlight sky,Or shuts out the glad rainbow from view.
In the coziest of homes, neat and new,
Dwell its people so kind-hearted and true.
Not a wall or tower high
Mars the tender, sunlight sky,
Or shuts out the glad rainbow from view.
When a dwelling for his mate is in quest,Does the robin find its shelter the best.There his sweetest notes he brings,And a flood of music flingsO'er your head as you pass 'neath his nest.
When a dwelling for his mate is in quest,
Does the robin find its shelter the best.
There his sweetest notes he brings,
And a flood of music flings
O'er your head as you pass 'neath his nest.
There are morning-glories dripping with dew,And the dogwood blossoms hang over you.In a drowse of rapture sweetDoes this vale look up to meet,And to bask in the smile of the blue?
There are morning-glories dripping with dew,
And the dogwood blossoms hang over you.
In a drowse of rapture sweet
Does this vale look up to meet,
And to bask in the smile of the blue?
Would your soul free from troubles be made?All its worries and its burdens unlade?From the tumult and the heatOf the noisy city street,Take yourself to the bliss of its shade.
Would your soul free from troubles be made?
All its worries and its burdens unlade?
From the tumult and the heat
Of the noisy city street,
Take yourself to the bliss of its shade.
There you'll drink till you stagger as you plod,Of the sweets from the blossom-spangled sod,While your weary frame is drenched,And your thirsty soul is quenched,In a shower of the great love of God.
There you'll drink till you stagger as you plod,
Of the sweets from the blossom-spangled sod,
While your weary frame is drenched,
And your thirsty soul is quenched,
In a shower of the great love of God.
[1]The above is a description of the Lakeside addition to Ft. Wayne, Ind.
[1]The above is a description of the Lakeside addition to Ft. Wayne, Ind.
Enchanting dawn of autumn days,So clear, so cool, so calm,O'er all creation breathing forthThy sweet refreshing balm!The woodland dons its brightest hue,Its rainbow-tinted gown;Each soft and dreamy breeze that blowsBrings showers of crimson down.Old earth now groans beneath her loadOf grain and fruited vine,That thickly hangs o'er orchard wall,And drips with mellow wine.The birds fly lazily above,Bathed in thy misty light,While on the hillside loll the kineIn morning's gold delight.Wrapped in thy folds of golden mist,This restless soul of mineIs lulled into a blissful dreamOf peace and love divine.
Enchanting dawn of autumn days,So clear, so cool, so calm,O'er all creation breathing forthThy sweet refreshing balm!
Enchanting dawn of autumn days,
So clear, so cool, so calm,
O'er all creation breathing forth
Thy sweet refreshing balm!
The woodland dons its brightest hue,Its rainbow-tinted gown;Each soft and dreamy breeze that blowsBrings showers of crimson down.
The woodland dons its brightest hue,
Its rainbow-tinted gown;
Each soft and dreamy breeze that blows
Brings showers of crimson down.
Old earth now groans beneath her loadOf grain and fruited vine,That thickly hangs o'er orchard wall,And drips with mellow wine.
Old earth now groans beneath her load
Of grain and fruited vine,
That thickly hangs o'er orchard wall,
And drips with mellow wine.
The birds fly lazily above,Bathed in thy misty light,While on the hillside loll the kineIn morning's gold delight.
The birds fly lazily above,
Bathed in thy misty light,
While on the hillside loll the kine
In morning's gold delight.
Wrapped in thy folds of golden mist,This restless soul of mineIs lulled into a blissful dreamOf peace and love divine.
Wrapped in thy folds of golden mist,
This restless soul of mine
Is lulled into a blissful dream
Of peace and love divine.
Sweet flower, what cold, unfeeling handHath plucked thee from that shady landWhere clear, cool waters lie,And velvet mosses kissed thy feet?Who took thee from thy loved retreat,And left thee here to die?Thou fairest gem of all the earth—E'en bonnie wilds that gave thee birthThy petals' sweetness hold.I drink thy breath in fragrant draught,Sweeter than royal lips e'er quaffedFrom cups of burnished gold.Who took thee from thy crystal home,Where finny tribes delight to roamAnd frisk in morning play;Where never harsher sound was heardThan fall of leaf or trill of bird,Or winds that softly swayThe trees that bend thy nook above,And, bending, whispered low of loveTo thee, my bonnie flower,Or whir of swallows' silken flightAcross the waves, the calm delightOf evening's dappling shower?Although thou'rt crushed beneath my feet,Thy dewy fragrance is more sweetThan at thy frail life's dawn.Thus, flow'r of love and purity,This lesson I have learned of thee:That when my friends are gone,And fate's rude tread has crushed my heart,Its blossoms shall more sweets impartThan at its first love's dawn.
Sweet flower, what cold, unfeeling handHath plucked thee from that shady landWhere clear, cool waters lie,And velvet mosses kissed thy feet?Who took thee from thy loved retreat,And left thee here to die?
Sweet flower, what cold, unfeeling hand
Hath plucked thee from that shady land
Where clear, cool waters lie,
And velvet mosses kissed thy feet?
Who took thee from thy loved retreat,
And left thee here to die?
Thou fairest gem of all the earth—E'en bonnie wilds that gave thee birthThy petals' sweetness hold.I drink thy breath in fragrant draught,Sweeter than royal lips e'er quaffedFrom cups of burnished gold.
Thou fairest gem of all the earth—
E'en bonnie wilds that gave thee birth
Thy petals' sweetness hold.
I drink thy breath in fragrant draught,
Sweeter than royal lips e'er quaffed
From cups of burnished gold.
Who took thee from thy crystal home,Where finny tribes delight to roamAnd frisk in morning play;Where never harsher sound was heardThan fall of leaf or trill of bird,Or winds that softly sway
Who took thee from thy crystal home,
Where finny tribes delight to roam
And frisk in morning play;
Where never harsher sound was heard
Than fall of leaf or trill of bird,
Or winds that softly sway
The trees that bend thy nook above,And, bending, whispered low of loveTo thee, my bonnie flower,Or whir of swallows' silken flightAcross the waves, the calm delightOf evening's dappling shower?
The trees that bend thy nook above,
And, bending, whispered low of love
To thee, my bonnie flower,
Or whir of swallows' silken flight
Across the waves, the calm delight
Of evening's dappling shower?
Although thou'rt crushed beneath my feet,Thy dewy fragrance is more sweetThan at thy frail life's dawn.Thus, flow'r of love and purity,This lesson I have learned of thee:That when my friends are gone,And fate's rude tread has crushed my heart,Its blossoms shall more sweets impartThan at its first love's dawn.
Although thou'rt crushed beneath my feet,
Thy dewy fragrance is more sweet
Than at thy frail life's dawn.
Thus, flow'r of love and purity,
This lesson I have learned of thee:
That when my friends are gone,
And fate's rude tread has crushed my heart,
Its blossoms shall more sweets impart
Than at its first love's dawn.
How still the morn! no leaf is stirred,Nor fruited branches sway,Save now and then, from dewy glen,A breath of new-mown hay,Or blossoms of the summertide,Is wafted up the mountain side.How softly floats the cuckoo's songAcross the sleeping vale;In mystic glee the echo freeGives back the fairy tale.The stream, in drowsy ecstasy,Is gurgling onward to the sea.The lark swims slowly in the blue,The giant oaks so high,In sunlit haze their branches raise,As if to kiss the sky.We hear above the twittering birds,The placid lowing of the herds.The silvery laughter from the lipsOf children at their play;And in the rill below the millThe horses paw and neigh;While youths and maidens plight their vows,And workmen sing behind the plows.The noon is here, the sky is clearAnd tender as the morn;The ploughman's blest with perfect rest,Where noontime shade is born.The bird has ceased his song to trill;The lowing of the herd is still.Unnoticed, a dark speck appearsAbove the trees!—on highAt rapid pace and fast increaseIt scuds across the sky!Nor stops to rest o'er sea or lands,Till o'er this lovely vale it standsAn instant, then, as if possessedOf some aerial deil,With shriek and yell this imp of hellSwoops down upon the vale!Snatches the giant oaks from earthThat nourished them and gave them birth,And hurls them 'gainst the mountain side!—One sweep of its black wings,And all is o'er! And as beforeThe streamlet laughs and sings;But carries on its sunny tideFragments of debris to the wideAnd surging sea,—the shattered boughsOf oaks that proudly grewBeside the stream,—is it a dream?No, there's a baby's shoe!The sunset's crimson rays are shedSoft o'er the dying and the dead.While angels hover near and spreadTheir dewy shadows o'erThe vale where morn in joy was born—A blackened pile! But forThe song of one lone whip-poor-will,Like to the morning, all is still!
How still the morn! no leaf is stirred,Nor fruited branches sway,Save now and then, from dewy glen,A breath of new-mown hay,Or blossoms of the summertide,Is wafted up the mountain side.
How still the morn! no leaf is stirred,
Nor fruited branches sway,
Save now and then, from dewy glen,
A breath of new-mown hay,
Or blossoms of the summertide,
Is wafted up the mountain side.
How softly floats the cuckoo's songAcross the sleeping vale;In mystic glee the echo freeGives back the fairy tale.The stream, in drowsy ecstasy,Is gurgling onward to the sea.
How softly floats the cuckoo's song
Across the sleeping vale;
In mystic glee the echo free
Gives back the fairy tale.
The stream, in drowsy ecstasy,
Is gurgling onward to the sea.
The lark swims slowly in the blue,The giant oaks so high,In sunlit haze their branches raise,As if to kiss the sky.We hear above the twittering birds,The placid lowing of the herds.
The lark swims slowly in the blue,
The giant oaks so high,
In sunlit haze their branches raise,
As if to kiss the sky.
We hear above the twittering birds,
The placid lowing of the herds.
The silvery laughter from the lipsOf children at their play;And in the rill below the millThe horses paw and neigh;While youths and maidens plight their vows,And workmen sing behind the plows.
The silvery laughter from the lips
Of children at their play;
And in the rill below the mill
The horses paw and neigh;
While youths and maidens plight their vows,
And workmen sing behind the plows.
The noon is here, the sky is clearAnd tender as the morn;The ploughman's blest with perfect rest,Where noontime shade is born.The bird has ceased his song to trill;The lowing of the herd is still.
The noon is here, the sky is clear
And tender as the morn;
The ploughman's blest with perfect rest,
Where noontime shade is born.
The bird has ceased his song to trill;
The lowing of the herd is still.
Unnoticed, a dark speck appearsAbove the trees!—on highAt rapid pace and fast increaseIt scuds across the sky!Nor stops to rest o'er sea or lands,Till o'er this lovely vale it stands
Unnoticed, a dark speck appears
Above the trees!—on high
At rapid pace and fast increase
It scuds across the sky!
Nor stops to rest o'er sea or lands,
Till o'er this lovely vale it stands
An instant, then, as if possessedOf some aerial deil,With shriek and yell this imp of hellSwoops down upon the vale!Snatches the giant oaks from earthThat nourished them and gave them birth,
An instant, then, as if possessed
Of some aerial deil,
With shriek and yell this imp of hell
Swoops down upon the vale!
Snatches the giant oaks from earth
That nourished them and gave them birth,
And hurls them 'gainst the mountain side!—One sweep of its black wings,And all is o'er! And as beforeThe streamlet laughs and sings;But carries on its sunny tideFragments of debris to the wide
And hurls them 'gainst the mountain side!—
One sweep of its black wings,
And all is o'er! And as before
The streamlet laughs and sings;
But carries on its sunny tide
Fragments of debris to the wide
And surging sea,—the shattered boughsOf oaks that proudly grewBeside the stream,—is it a dream?No, there's a baby's shoe!The sunset's crimson rays are shedSoft o'er the dying and the dead.
And surging sea,—the shattered boughs
Of oaks that proudly grew
Beside the stream,—is it a dream?
No, there's a baby's shoe!
The sunset's crimson rays are shed
Soft o'er the dying and the dead.
While angels hover near and spreadTheir dewy shadows o'erThe vale where morn in joy was born—A blackened pile! But forThe song of one lone whip-poor-will,Like to the morning, all is still!
While angels hover near and spread
Their dewy shadows o'er
The vale where morn in joy was born—
A blackened pile! But for
The song of one lone whip-poor-will,
Like to the morning, all is still!
'Tis evening; on Winona LakeThe last glad sunbeams rest,Shedding their golden glories o'erHer soft and silken breast.And as my little boat glides forthInto their light, behold!The splashes from my oars are likeGreat drops of liquid gold.And now a softer, richer hueO'erspreads the western sky;Trees, hilltops, water—everythingSeems bathed in crimson dye.And o'er the bosom of the lakeSoft summer breezes glide,Bringing incense from the liliesOn the other side.I wonder, oh, I wonder so,If in that world of blissWhere sunsets never come, there's aughtMore beautiful than this.Oh, Father Time, if thou from meAll else that's lovely take,Leave only in my memoryThis sunset on the lake.
'Tis evening; on Winona LakeThe last glad sunbeams rest,Shedding their golden glories o'erHer soft and silken breast.
'Tis evening; on Winona Lake
The last glad sunbeams rest,
Shedding their golden glories o'er
Her soft and silken breast.
And as my little boat glides forthInto their light, behold!The splashes from my oars are likeGreat drops of liquid gold.
And as my little boat glides forth
Into their light, behold!
The splashes from my oars are like
Great drops of liquid gold.
And now a softer, richer hueO'erspreads the western sky;Trees, hilltops, water—everythingSeems bathed in crimson dye.
And now a softer, richer hue
O'erspreads the western sky;
Trees, hilltops, water—everything
Seems bathed in crimson dye.
And o'er the bosom of the lakeSoft summer breezes glide,Bringing incense from the liliesOn the other side.
And o'er the bosom of the lake
Soft summer breezes glide,
Bringing incense from the lilies
On the other side.
I wonder, oh, I wonder so,If in that world of blissWhere sunsets never come, there's aughtMore beautiful than this.
I wonder, oh, I wonder so,
If in that world of bliss
Where sunsets never come, there's aught
More beautiful than this.
Oh, Father Time, if thou from meAll else that's lovely take,Leave only in my memoryThis sunset on the lake.
Oh, Father Time, if thou from me
All else that's lovely take,
Leave only in my memory
This sunset on the lake.
Thou'rt bonnie, my steed, though a bit out of style,We've traveled together full many a mile;Yet nothing can give me such perfect delightAs to spring to thy saddle and spin out of sight,Away from the city of turmoil and strife,Away from the cares that beset business life,To a shady, green-carpeted country retreat,Where hearts ever loving may placidly beat.Away over pathways with dewdrops bespangled,Where myrtle and wild morning-glory are tangled,And the violet borrows its velvety hueFrom the God-given radiance of heaven's own blue.And cowslips and buttercups grow where we tread,The breeze whispers soft through the trees overhead,As showers of pink blossoms, with fragrance so rare,They shed o'er the ground, over us,—everywhere.Thou faithful old friend, always ready to go;Ne'er found out of order like others I know;And when off we go for a nice little spin,Unlike others, thou'st never left me to "walk in."Exchange for another that's handsome and new!No, no, bonnie steed, I will not part with you.But when thou art old and thy usefulness o'er,In a nice, cozy attic thy frame I will store,And every day, be it sunshine or rain,I'll steal to thy side and in fancy againWe'll skim the green meadows, my steed, you and I,'Mong the flowers that grow 'neath the soft, tender sky.Then come, let us bask in the dewy delightOf the country—hi! ho! we are soon out of sight.Though a bit out of style, just the same is thy speed.I love thee! I love thee! my bonnie bright steed.
Thou'rt bonnie, my steed, though a bit out of style,We've traveled together full many a mile;Yet nothing can give me such perfect delightAs to spring to thy saddle and spin out of sight,
Thou'rt bonnie, my steed, though a bit out of style,
We've traveled together full many a mile;
Yet nothing can give me such perfect delight
As to spring to thy saddle and spin out of sight,
Away from the city of turmoil and strife,Away from the cares that beset business life,To a shady, green-carpeted country retreat,Where hearts ever loving may placidly beat.
Away from the city of turmoil and strife,
Away from the cares that beset business life,
To a shady, green-carpeted country retreat,
Where hearts ever loving may placidly beat.
Away over pathways with dewdrops bespangled,Where myrtle and wild morning-glory are tangled,And the violet borrows its velvety hueFrom the God-given radiance of heaven's own blue.
Away over pathways with dewdrops bespangled,
Where myrtle and wild morning-glory are tangled,
And the violet borrows its velvety hue
From the God-given radiance of heaven's own blue.
And cowslips and buttercups grow where we tread,The breeze whispers soft through the trees overhead,As showers of pink blossoms, with fragrance so rare,They shed o'er the ground, over us,—everywhere.
And cowslips and buttercups grow where we tread,
The breeze whispers soft through the trees overhead,
As showers of pink blossoms, with fragrance so rare,
They shed o'er the ground, over us,—everywhere.
Thou faithful old friend, always ready to go;Ne'er found out of order like others I know;And when off we go for a nice little spin,Unlike others, thou'st never left me to "walk in."
Thou faithful old friend, always ready to go;
Ne'er found out of order like others I know;
And when off we go for a nice little spin,
Unlike others, thou'st never left me to "walk in."
Exchange for another that's handsome and new!No, no, bonnie steed, I will not part with you.But when thou art old and thy usefulness o'er,In a nice, cozy attic thy frame I will store,
Exchange for another that's handsome and new!
No, no, bonnie steed, I will not part with you.
But when thou art old and thy usefulness o'er,
In a nice, cozy attic thy frame I will store,
And every day, be it sunshine or rain,I'll steal to thy side and in fancy againWe'll skim the green meadows, my steed, you and I,'Mong the flowers that grow 'neath the soft, tender sky.
And every day, be it sunshine or rain,
I'll steal to thy side and in fancy again
We'll skim the green meadows, my steed, you and I,
'Mong the flowers that grow 'neath the soft, tender sky.
Then come, let us bask in the dewy delightOf the country—hi! ho! we are soon out of sight.Though a bit out of style, just the same is thy speed.I love thee! I love thee! my bonnie bright steed.
Then come, let us bask in the dewy delight
Of the country—hi! ho! we are soon out of sight.
Though a bit out of style, just the same is thy speed.
I love thee! I love thee! my bonnie bright steed.
Oh, balmy night—a night in June—What endless beauties thine!Hast thou a balm thou'lt gently breatheO'er tired souls like mine?The cricket 'neath the old porch floorChirps forth a merry lay;The roses nod and smile at me—"A sweet good-night," they say.Oh, cricket, hush your merry song;How can you be so gay?Ye roses bow your crimson heads,And mourn my vanished day.
Oh, balmy night—a night in June—What endless beauties thine!Hast thou a balm thou'lt gently breatheO'er tired souls like mine?
Oh, balmy night—a night in June—
What endless beauties thine!
Hast thou a balm thou'lt gently breathe
O'er tired souls like mine?
The cricket 'neath the old porch floorChirps forth a merry lay;The roses nod and smile at me—"A sweet good-night," they say.
The cricket 'neath the old porch floor
Chirps forth a merry lay;
The roses nod and smile at me—
"A sweet good-night," they say.
Oh, cricket, hush your merry song;How can you be so gay?Ye roses bow your crimson heads,And mourn my vanished day.
Oh, cricket, hush your merry song;
How can you be so gay?
Ye roses bow your crimson heads,
And mourn my vanished day.
How oft from the din of the hard city street,The show and the splendor, in fancy, my feetStray backward through paths that are dripping with dew,To an old-fashioned garden my babyhood knew.A wealth of red roses hung over the wall,And, laden with pink, downy peaches, a tallAnd willowy tree did its long branches swayO'erhead, as you passed, in an inviting way;While from its green shelter the oriole's songRode on the soft breezes the summer day long.The currant-bush flourished in rows near the wall,The sugar corn waved its soft leaves over all;And buttercups, daisies and peonies grew,The fragrant June pinks and the wee bells of blue;The marigolds, poppies, and pansies so sweetLifted their dewy faces towards heaven to meetThe first smile of morning; the fragrant sweet peaWound its delicate tendrils round pickets, and weTo drowsiness drank of the odor it spilled,While sunflowers nodded to us as we filledOur baskets with blossoms for table bouquets,Or lolled in the bliss of the soft morning haze;Or, with aprons outspread, in our childish delight,The butterfly chased in his foraging flight'Mong the flowers; or the hummer, that gay little thief,That pilfered the sweets from each petal and leaf.But long years ago the old garden was sold!Its walls, rustic gates, are all crumbled to mold;Its beds and smooth pathways 'neath grass-tangles hid,For the breezes of June-time are whispering 'midThe flowers that blossom her pallet above,Who tended that old-fashioned garden I love;And singing their lullaby sweetest where liesMy playmate and sister with bonnie blue eyes.And I hope when my sojourn of usefulness hereIs past, to the place that my bosom holds dearI may go, and there pillow my head 'neath the treeWhere robin and oriole chirrup in glee,While my soul slips away from the spot that I love,To old-fashioned gardens that grow up above.
How oft from the din of the hard city street,The show and the splendor, in fancy, my feetStray backward through paths that are dripping with dew,To an old-fashioned garden my babyhood knew.
How oft from the din of the hard city street,
The show and the splendor, in fancy, my feet
Stray backward through paths that are dripping with dew,
To an old-fashioned garden my babyhood knew.
A wealth of red roses hung over the wall,And, laden with pink, downy peaches, a tallAnd willowy tree did its long branches swayO'erhead, as you passed, in an inviting way;While from its green shelter the oriole's songRode on the soft breezes the summer day long.
A wealth of red roses hung over the wall,
And, laden with pink, downy peaches, a tall
And willowy tree did its long branches sway
O'erhead, as you passed, in an inviting way;
While from its green shelter the oriole's song
Rode on the soft breezes the summer day long.
The currant-bush flourished in rows near the wall,The sugar corn waved its soft leaves over all;And buttercups, daisies and peonies grew,The fragrant June pinks and the wee bells of blue;
The currant-bush flourished in rows near the wall,
The sugar corn waved its soft leaves over all;
And buttercups, daisies and peonies grew,
The fragrant June pinks and the wee bells of blue;
The marigolds, poppies, and pansies so sweetLifted their dewy faces towards heaven to meetThe first smile of morning; the fragrant sweet peaWound its delicate tendrils round pickets, and we
The marigolds, poppies, and pansies so sweet
Lifted their dewy faces towards heaven to meet
The first smile of morning; the fragrant sweet pea
Wound its delicate tendrils round pickets, and we
To drowsiness drank of the odor it spilled,While sunflowers nodded to us as we filledOur baskets with blossoms for table bouquets,Or lolled in the bliss of the soft morning haze;Or, with aprons outspread, in our childish delight,The butterfly chased in his foraging flight'Mong the flowers; or the hummer, that gay little thief,That pilfered the sweets from each petal and leaf.
To drowsiness drank of the odor it spilled,
While sunflowers nodded to us as we filled
Our baskets with blossoms for table bouquets,
Or lolled in the bliss of the soft morning haze;
Or, with aprons outspread, in our childish delight,
The butterfly chased in his foraging flight
'Mong the flowers; or the hummer, that gay little thief,
That pilfered the sweets from each petal and leaf.
But long years ago the old garden was sold!Its walls, rustic gates, are all crumbled to mold;Its beds and smooth pathways 'neath grass-tangles hid,For the breezes of June-time are whispering 'midThe flowers that blossom her pallet above,Who tended that old-fashioned garden I love;And singing their lullaby sweetest where liesMy playmate and sister with bonnie blue eyes.
But long years ago the old garden was sold!
Its walls, rustic gates, are all crumbled to mold;
Its beds and smooth pathways 'neath grass-tangles hid,
For the breezes of June-time are whispering 'mid
The flowers that blossom her pallet above,
Who tended that old-fashioned garden I love;
And singing their lullaby sweetest where lies
My playmate and sister with bonnie blue eyes.
And I hope when my sojourn of usefulness hereIs past, to the place that my bosom holds dearI may go, and there pillow my head 'neath the treeWhere robin and oriole chirrup in glee,While my soul slips away from the spot that I love,To old-fashioned gardens that grow up above.
And I hope when my sojourn of usefulness here
Is past, to the place that my bosom holds dear
I may go, and there pillow my head 'neath the tree
Where robin and oriole chirrup in glee,
While my soul slips away from the spot that I love,
To old-fashioned gardens that grow up above.
I stood, one night, by the old St. Joe,Where the moonbeams love to loiter;Watching the ripples come and goAnd the willow trees their shadows throwOn the mystic, murm'ring water.As I lingered there on the vine-clad bank,Where the pale rays glint and quiverThrough the silvered leaves, a perfumed breezeSo softly swayed the willow trees,And dappled the laughing river.The waters murmured so low and sweet,Then an echo, soft and clear,—Not the sound of lute or song of bird,But the sweetest music ever heard,Fell on my enchanted ear.The silvered ripples all leaped for joy!And over the waters glancingI saw, in the light, a pretty sight;In an ecstasy of glad delight,The ripples all were dancing.They danced in the midst where the stars look down—No shadowy branch to hide them;They danced where the willows kiss the stream,Then back again in the moonlight's gleam,And the fish peeped out and eyed them.They danced in the shade of the iron bridge,Where the aspen's shadows play;And the great moon smiled as the dancers fled,And spangles dropped on each little head,As they laughed and danced away.
I stood, one night, by the old St. Joe,Where the moonbeams love to loiter;Watching the ripples come and goAnd the willow trees their shadows throwOn the mystic, murm'ring water.
I stood, one night, by the old St. Joe,
Where the moonbeams love to loiter;
Watching the ripples come and go
And the willow trees their shadows throw
On the mystic, murm'ring water.
As I lingered there on the vine-clad bank,Where the pale rays glint and quiverThrough the silvered leaves, a perfumed breezeSo softly swayed the willow trees,And dappled the laughing river.
As I lingered there on the vine-clad bank,
Where the pale rays glint and quiver
Through the silvered leaves, a perfumed breeze
So softly swayed the willow trees,
And dappled the laughing river.
The waters murmured so low and sweet,Then an echo, soft and clear,—Not the sound of lute or song of bird,But the sweetest music ever heard,Fell on my enchanted ear.
The waters murmured so low and sweet,
Then an echo, soft and clear,—
Not the sound of lute or song of bird,
But the sweetest music ever heard,
Fell on my enchanted ear.
The silvered ripples all leaped for joy!And over the waters glancingI saw, in the light, a pretty sight;In an ecstasy of glad delight,The ripples all were dancing.
The silvered ripples all leaped for joy!
And over the waters glancing
I saw, in the light, a pretty sight;
In an ecstasy of glad delight,
The ripples all were dancing.
They danced in the midst where the stars look down—No shadowy branch to hide them;They danced where the willows kiss the stream,Then back again in the moonlight's gleam,And the fish peeped out and eyed them.
They danced in the midst where the stars look down—
No shadowy branch to hide them;
They danced where the willows kiss the stream,
Then back again in the moonlight's gleam,
And the fish peeped out and eyed them.
They danced in the shade of the iron bridge,Where the aspen's shadows play;And the great moon smiled as the dancers fled,And spangles dropped on each little head,As they laughed and danced away.
They danced in the shade of the iron bridge,
Where the aspen's shadows play;
And the great moon smiled as the dancers fled,
And spangles dropped on each little head,
As they laughed and danced away.
Arrayed in a garment of fleeciest down,The Winter-king rides over meadows so brown;Through wild wailing woodlands so stark and so bare,He rides on the wind to the great everywhere.He dresses the trees in the daintiest gown;And over each window in country and town,With fairy-like fingers, unheard and unseen,He pictures, in crystal and silvery sheen,Most beautiful cities with steeples and towers,And wild tangled mazes bespangled with flowers.But 'mid the sweet music of jingling bellsYou hear the old pessimist counting his ills.With a sorrowful shake of the head murmurs he,"Such nasty cold weather I never did see;The streets are so slip'ry one can't walk at all,For danger of breaking a leg by a fall;Unless a few days bring a great change about,The wheat in the ground will be all frozen out."But roguish old Winter soon bundles his packOf ice, frost, and snow, on his jolly old back,And hies to the mountain, but leaves in his steadThe Goddess of Love, with the blossom-crowned head;And a breath that is filled with the nectar and dew,She stole from the heart of the violet blue;A voice—O, the music that swells on the airFrom fresh-budding woodland, from hedge,—everywhere,Caressed by the sunlight and bathed by the showers,She walks on a carpet of mosses and flowers.Again comes the pessimist, grumpy and grim,And says the fair goddess has no charms for him."'Tis raining too often, the corn and the wheatWill rot in the ground; there'll be nothing to eat;Besides, the old crow, in his greedy delight,Now raideth the cornfields from morning till night.A famine is certain! 'Tis sure to prevail!"And thus the old pessimist keeps up his wail.At last this fair goddess descends from the throne,Gives place to another we've all loved and known.Her crown is of roses, her garment of grain,With silken folds falling and rising again,As scent-laden wind o'er their soft billows plays;Enraptured, she basks in the blue summer haze,Till bliss is dissolved into tear-laden showers,That drench all the trees and refresh all the flowers.As softly they fall on the roof o'er our heads,O, the sleep-haunted rapture their lullaby sheds!Though harvest with plenty his gran'ries hath filled,The murmuring pessimist never is stilled.He says, as he brushes the sweat from his brow,"I don't see the use of such hot weather now;'Twill dry up the fruit, the grapes on the vine—Unless there's a change, they will yield us no wine."And thus the old pessimist grumbles awayThe brightness and joy of the long summer day.He teases the evening, he teases the morn,Until the fair Goddess of Autumn is born.She comes heavy-laden with fruit from the vine,Sweet clusters that drip with the mellowest wine;And rosy-cheeked fruit from the old apple-tree,And ears that are golden as golden can be.Enrobed in a garment of crimson and brown,A garland of goldenrod forming her crown,In the mystic delight of the autumn she stands,And showers her gifts o'er the pessimist's lands;While he from his orchard-land turns in disgust,Saying, "Labor avails me but dust, mould, and rust;The winter comes on altogether too fast,The corn that's unhusked will be caught in the blast;My bills, they increase, while my business is slow;I soon shall be broken and bankrupt, I know!There's no satisfaction on land or on sea,For nothing is what I desire it to be."Say, Pessimist, say, while you grumble and fret,Know ye not there is One who your needs won't forget?Think ye the kind Father of wisdom so greatForgetteth the things which His hands did create?The sparrow sings neither by day nor by night,Yet He, in His tenderness, guideth its flight.He maketh the lily of waxen-white hue,And feeds it on showers, on sunshine and dew;Yet lives there a king in such garments arrayed?Such beauty as robes this sweet flower of the glade?In rapturous reign, the cool waters beside,It looks up and trusts, and its needs are supplied.The richest of treasures to thee will be given,If thou, like the lily, wilt look up to heaven.
Arrayed in a garment of fleeciest down,The Winter-king rides over meadows so brown;Through wild wailing woodlands so stark and so bare,He rides on the wind to the great everywhere.He dresses the trees in the daintiest gown;And over each window in country and town,With fairy-like fingers, unheard and unseen,He pictures, in crystal and silvery sheen,Most beautiful cities with steeples and towers,And wild tangled mazes bespangled with flowers.But 'mid the sweet music of jingling bellsYou hear the old pessimist counting his ills.With a sorrowful shake of the head murmurs he,"Such nasty cold weather I never did see;The streets are so slip'ry one can't walk at all,For danger of breaking a leg by a fall;Unless a few days bring a great change about,The wheat in the ground will be all frozen out."But roguish old Winter soon bundles his packOf ice, frost, and snow, on his jolly old back,And hies to the mountain, but leaves in his steadThe Goddess of Love, with the blossom-crowned head;And a breath that is filled with the nectar and dew,She stole from the heart of the violet blue;A voice—O, the music that swells on the airFrom fresh-budding woodland, from hedge,—everywhere,Caressed by the sunlight and bathed by the showers,She walks on a carpet of mosses and flowers.Again comes the pessimist, grumpy and grim,And says the fair goddess has no charms for him."'Tis raining too often, the corn and the wheatWill rot in the ground; there'll be nothing to eat;Besides, the old crow, in his greedy delight,Now raideth the cornfields from morning till night.A famine is certain! 'Tis sure to prevail!"And thus the old pessimist keeps up his wail.At last this fair goddess descends from the throne,Gives place to another we've all loved and known.Her crown is of roses, her garment of grain,With silken folds falling and rising again,As scent-laden wind o'er their soft billows plays;Enraptured, she basks in the blue summer haze,Till bliss is dissolved into tear-laden showers,That drench all the trees and refresh all the flowers.As softly they fall on the roof o'er our heads,O, the sleep-haunted rapture their lullaby sheds!Though harvest with plenty his gran'ries hath filled,The murmuring pessimist never is stilled.He says, as he brushes the sweat from his brow,"I don't see the use of such hot weather now;'Twill dry up the fruit, the grapes on the vine—Unless there's a change, they will yield us no wine."And thus the old pessimist grumbles awayThe brightness and joy of the long summer day.He teases the evening, he teases the morn,Until the fair Goddess of Autumn is born.She comes heavy-laden with fruit from the vine,Sweet clusters that drip with the mellowest wine;And rosy-cheeked fruit from the old apple-tree,And ears that are golden as golden can be.Enrobed in a garment of crimson and brown,A garland of goldenrod forming her crown,In the mystic delight of the autumn she stands,And showers her gifts o'er the pessimist's lands;While he from his orchard-land turns in disgust,Saying, "Labor avails me but dust, mould, and rust;The winter comes on altogether too fast,The corn that's unhusked will be caught in the blast;My bills, they increase, while my business is slow;I soon shall be broken and bankrupt, I know!There's no satisfaction on land or on sea,For nothing is what I desire it to be."
Arrayed in a garment of fleeciest down,
The Winter-king rides over meadows so brown;
Through wild wailing woodlands so stark and so bare,
He rides on the wind to the great everywhere.
He dresses the trees in the daintiest gown;
And over each window in country and town,
With fairy-like fingers, unheard and unseen,
He pictures, in crystal and silvery sheen,
Most beautiful cities with steeples and towers,
And wild tangled mazes bespangled with flowers.
But 'mid the sweet music of jingling bells
You hear the old pessimist counting his ills.
With a sorrowful shake of the head murmurs he,
"Such nasty cold weather I never did see;
The streets are so slip'ry one can't walk at all,
For danger of breaking a leg by a fall;
Unless a few days bring a great change about,
The wheat in the ground will be all frozen out."
But roguish old Winter soon bundles his pack
Of ice, frost, and snow, on his jolly old back,
And hies to the mountain, but leaves in his stead
The Goddess of Love, with the blossom-crowned head;
And a breath that is filled with the nectar and dew,
She stole from the heart of the violet blue;
A voice—O, the music that swells on the air
From fresh-budding woodland, from hedge,—everywhere,
Caressed by the sunlight and bathed by the showers,
She walks on a carpet of mosses and flowers.
Again comes the pessimist, grumpy and grim,
And says the fair goddess has no charms for him.
"'Tis raining too often, the corn and the wheat
Will rot in the ground; there'll be nothing to eat;
Besides, the old crow, in his greedy delight,
Now raideth the cornfields from morning till night.
A famine is certain! 'Tis sure to prevail!"
And thus the old pessimist keeps up his wail.
At last this fair goddess descends from the throne,
Gives place to another we've all loved and known.
Her crown is of roses, her garment of grain,
With silken folds falling and rising again,
As scent-laden wind o'er their soft billows plays;
Enraptured, she basks in the blue summer haze,
Till bliss is dissolved into tear-laden showers,
That drench all the trees and refresh all the flowers.
As softly they fall on the roof o'er our heads,
O, the sleep-haunted rapture their lullaby sheds!
Though harvest with plenty his gran'ries hath filled,
The murmuring pessimist never is stilled.
He says, as he brushes the sweat from his brow,
"I don't see the use of such hot weather now;
'Twill dry up the fruit, the grapes on the vine—
Unless there's a change, they will yield us no wine."
And thus the old pessimist grumbles away
The brightness and joy of the long summer day.
He teases the evening, he teases the morn,
Until the fair Goddess of Autumn is born.
She comes heavy-laden with fruit from the vine,
Sweet clusters that drip with the mellowest wine;
And rosy-cheeked fruit from the old apple-tree,
And ears that are golden as golden can be.
Enrobed in a garment of crimson and brown,
A garland of goldenrod forming her crown,
In the mystic delight of the autumn she stands,
And showers her gifts o'er the pessimist's lands;
While he from his orchard-land turns in disgust,
Saying, "Labor avails me but dust, mould, and rust;
The winter comes on altogether too fast,
The corn that's unhusked will be caught in the blast;
My bills, they increase, while my business is slow;
I soon shall be broken and bankrupt, I know!
There's no satisfaction on land or on sea,
For nothing is what I desire it to be."
Say, Pessimist, say, while you grumble and fret,Know ye not there is One who your needs won't forget?Think ye the kind Father of wisdom so greatForgetteth the things which His hands did create?The sparrow sings neither by day nor by night,Yet He, in His tenderness, guideth its flight.He maketh the lily of waxen-white hue,And feeds it on showers, on sunshine and dew;Yet lives there a king in such garments arrayed?Such beauty as robes this sweet flower of the glade?In rapturous reign, the cool waters beside,It looks up and trusts, and its needs are supplied.The richest of treasures to thee will be given,If thou, like the lily, wilt look up to heaven.
Say, Pessimist, say, while you grumble and fret,
Know ye not there is One who your needs won't forget?
Think ye the kind Father of wisdom so great
Forgetteth the things which His hands did create?
The sparrow sings neither by day nor by night,
Yet He, in His tenderness, guideth its flight.
He maketh the lily of waxen-white hue,
And feeds it on showers, on sunshine and dew;
Yet lives there a king in such garments arrayed?
Such beauty as robes this sweet flower of the glade?
In rapturous reign, the cool waters beside,
It looks up and trusts, and its needs are supplied.
The richest of treasures to thee will be given,
If thou, like the lily, wilt look up to heaven.
The night is past, the thunder's roarIn distance dies away;And in the east, a gleam of lightForetells the coming day;And women, bearing spices sweet,Are hast'ning on their wayToward that tomb, so dark and deep,Where Jesus' body lay."But who," these faithful women ask,And pause upon their way,—"When we have reached our Master's tomb,Who'll roll the stone away?"At last they reach the hallowed spot,—The tomb that Joseph made,Wherein, three days before, their lovedAnd loving Lord was laid.The glory of the golden sunFills budding woods with light,The morning dewdrops sparkle onThe Easter lilies white.Sweet odor from the hyacinthUpon the breeze is borne;All nature now proclaims with joy,"It is the world's first morn!"The women stand beside the tombIn deep surprise and fear;For lo! the stone is rolled away—Their Master is not there.Impulsive Mary MagdaleneStays not, but hastens onThat she may tell the wondrous newsTo Peter and to John.She tells them and they come with herUnto the hallowed place,And find it just as she has said—Of Jesus there's no trace.Then silently they turn and goEach on his way—save one;'Tis loving Mary MagdaleneWho stays and weeps alone.She's thinking now of days when friendsAway from her all turned,When thoughtless Mary MagdaleneBy all the world was spurned.How Jesus, in His wondrous love,Had touched her heart within,And led her into righteous pathsFrom those of vilest sin.And as she weeps, she stoops and looksInto the sepulcher,And sees two angels sitting thereWho kindly say to her:"Why weepest thou, oh, woman?"And Magdalene replies,"Because they've taken away my Lord;I know not where He lies."As Mary speaks she turns around—Another form is there!She thinks it is the gardener,Who kindly says to her:"Whom seekest thou, oh, woman?Why stand ye weeping there?"Says Mary, "If you've borne Him hence,Oh, please, sir, tell me where."The Saviour's loving heart is touched;(For it is He who speaks—Her loving Lord and Master, whomSo earnestly she seeks).He draws a little closer now,That she her Lord may know,And answers only, "Mary,"In accents soft and low.She raises now her tearful eyes,They are no longer blind;For none but He could speak her nameSo tenderly and kind.Forgetting, in her love so blindThe cause for which He'd died,—Forgettingallsave at His feetNo harm can her betide,With beating heart and outstretched armsShe flies her Lord to greet."Rabboni!" then she kneels amongThe lilies at His feet.He looks with tend'rest pity onThat face with tears still wet,And says "You must not touch me now;I will not leave you yet."But by and by I will ascendUnto my God and thine;Go thou and tell, when thou dost findThose true disciples mine."The day is spent, the lily foldsHer leaves upon her breast;The violets close their dewy eyesAnd sweetly sink to rest.The westland crimson glory fadesFrom hilltop, wood, and lawn,Night's tender dews fall softly o'erThe world's First Easter Dawn.
The night is past, the thunder's roarIn distance dies away;And in the east, a gleam of lightForetells the coming day;
The night is past, the thunder's roar
In distance dies away;
And in the east, a gleam of light
Foretells the coming day;
And women, bearing spices sweet,Are hast'ning on their wayToward that tomb, so dark and deep,Where Jesus' body lay.
And women, bearing spices sweet,
Are hast'ning on their way
Toward that tomb, so dark and deep,
Where Jesus' body lay.
"But who," these faithful women ask,And pause upon their way,—"When we have reached our Master's tomb,Who'll roll the stone away?"
"But who," these faithful women ask,
And pause upon their way,—
"When we have reached our Master's tomb,
Who'll roll the stone away?"
At last they reach the hallowed spot,—The tomb that Joseph made,Wherein, three days before, their lovedAnd loving Lord was laid.
At last they reach the hallowed spot,—
The tomb that Joseph made,
Wherein, three days before, their loved
And loving Lord was laid.
The glory of the golden sunFills budding woods with light,The morning dewdrops sparkle onThe Easter lilies white.
The glory of the golden sun
Fills budding woods with light,
The morning dewdrops sparkle on
The Easter lilies white.
Sweet odor from the hyacinthUpon the breeze is borne;All nature now proclaims with joy,"It is the world's first morn!"
Sweet odor from the hyacinth
Upon the breeze is borne;
All nature now proclaims with joy,
"It is the world's first morn!"
The women stand beside the tombIn deep surprise and fear;For lo! the stone is rolled away—Their Master is not there.
The women stand beside the tomb
In deep surprise and fear;
For lo! the stone is rolled away—
Their Master is not there.
Impulsive Mary MagdaleneStays not, but hastens onThat she may tell the wondrous newsTo Peter and to John.
Impulsive Mary Magdalene
Stays not, but hastens on
That she may tell the wondrous news
To Peter and to John.
She tells them and they come with herUnto the hallowed place,And find it just as she has said—Of Jesus there's no trace.
She tells them and they come with her
Unto the hallowed place,
And find it just as she has said—
Of Jesus there's no trace.
Then silently they turn and goEach on his way—save one;'Tis loving Mary MagdaleneWho stays and weeps alone.
Then silently they turn and go
Each on his way—save one;
'Tis loving Mary Magdalene
Who stays and weeps alone.
She's thinking now of days when friendsAway from her all turned,When thoughtless Mary MagdaleneBy all the world was spurned.
She's thinking now of days when friends
Away from her all turned,
When thoughtless Mary Magdalene
By all the world was spurned.
How Jesus, in His wondrous love,Had touched her heart within,And led her into righteous pathsFrom those of vilest sin.
How Jesus, in His wondrous love,
Had touched her heart within,
And led her into righteous paths
From those of vilest sin.
And as she weeps, she stoops and looksInto the sepulcher,And sees two angels sitting thereWho kindly say to her:
And as she weeps, she stoops and looks
Into the sepulcher,
And sees two angels sitting there
Who kindly say to her:
"Why weepest thou, oh, woman?"And Magdalene replies,"Because they've taken away my Lord;I know not where He lies."
"Why weepest thou, oh, woman?"
And Magdalene replies,
"Because they've taken away my Lord;
I know not where He lies."
As Mary speaks she turns around—Another form is there!She thinks it is the gardener,Who kindly says to her:
As Mary speaks she turns around—
Another form is there!
She thinks it is the gardener,
Who kindly says to her:
"Whom seekest thou, oh, woman?Why stand ye weeping there?"Says Mary, "If you've borne Him hence,Oh, please, sir, tell me where."
"Whom seekest thou, oh, woman?
Why stand ye weeping there?"
Says Mary, "If you've borne Him hence,
Oh, please, sir, tell me where."
The Saviour's loving heart is touched;(For it is He who speaks—Her loving Lord and Master, whomSo earnestly she seeks).
The Saviour's loving heart is touched;
(For it is He who speaks—
Her loving Lord and Master, whom
So earnestly she seeks).
He draws a little closer now,That she her Lord may know,And answers only, "Mary,"In accents soft and low.
He draws a little closer now,
That she her Lord may know,
And answers only, "Mary,"
In accents soft and low.
She raises now her tearful eyes,They are no longer blind;For none but He could speak her nameSo tenderly and kind.
She raises now her tearful eyes,
They are no longer blind;
For none but He could speak her name
So tenderly and kind.
Forgetting, in her love so blindThe cause for which He'd died,—Forgettingallsave at His feetNo harm can her betide,
Forgetting, in her love so blind
The cause for which He'd died,—
Forgettingallsave at His feet
No harm can her betide,
With beating heart and outstretched armsShe flies her Lord to greet."Rabboni!" then she kneels amongThe lilies at His feet.
With beating heart and outstretched arms
She flies her Lord to greet.
"Rabboni!" then she kneels among
The lilies at His feet.
He looks with tend'rest pity onThat face with tears still wet,And says "You must not touch me now;I will not leave you yet.
He looks with tend'rest pity on
That face with tears still wet,
And says "You must not touch me now;
I will not leave you yet.
"But by and by I will ascendUnto my God and thine;Go thou and tell, when thou dost findThose true disciples mine."
"But by and by I will ascend
Unto my God and thine;
Go thou and tell, when thou dost find
Those true disciples mine."
The day is spent, the lily foldsHer leaves upon her breast;The violets close their dewy eyesAnd sweetly sink to rest.
The day is spent, the lily folds
Her leaves upon her breast;
The violets close their dewy eyes
And sweetly sink to rest.
The westland crimson glory fadesFrom hilltop, wood, and lawn,Night's tender dews fall softly o'erThe world's First Easter Dawn.
The westland crimson glory fades
From hilltop, wood, and lawn,
Night's tender dews fall softly o'er
The world's First Easter Dawn.