Snow.
FFLOWERS upon the summer lea,Daisies, kingcups, pale primroses—These are sung from sea to sea,As many a darling rhyme discloses.Tangled wood and hawthorn daleIn many a songful snatch prevail;But never yet, as well I mind,In all their verses can I findA simple tune, with quiet flow,To match the falling of the snow.O weary passed each winter day,And windily howled each winter night;O miry grew each village way,And mists enfolded every height;And ever on the window paneA froward gust blew down with rain,And day by day in tawny brownThe Luggie stream came heaving down:—I could have fallen asleep and dreamedUntil again spring sunshine gleamed.And what! said I, is this the modeThat Winter kings it now-a-days?The Robin keeps its own abode,And pipes his independent lays.I’ve seen the day on Merkland hill,That snow has fallen with a will,Even in November! Now, alas;The whole year round we see the grass:—Ah, winter now may come and goWithout a single fall of snow.It was the latest day but oneOf winter, as I questioned thus;And sooth! an angry mood was on,As at a thing most scandalous;—When lo! some hailstones on the paneWith sudden tinkle rang amain,Till in an ecstasy of joyI clapp’d and shouted like a boy—Oh, rain may come and rain may go,But what can match the falling snow!It draped the naked sycamoreOn Foordcroft hill, above the well;The elms of Rosebank o’er and o’erWere silvered richly as it fell.The distant Campsie peaks were lost,And farthest Criftin with his hostOf gloomy pine-trees disappeared,Nor even a lonely ridge upreared.—Oh, rain may come and rain may go,But what can match the falling snow!Afar upon the Solsgirth moor,Each heather sprig of withered brownIs fringed with thread of silver pureAs slow the soft flakes waver down;And on Glenconner’s lonely path,And Gartshore’s still and open strath,It falleth, quiet as the birthOf morning o’er the quickening earth.—Oh, rain may come and rain may go,But what can match the falling snow!And all around our Merkland homeIs laid a sheet of virgin lawn;On fairer, softer, ne’er did roamThe nimble Oread or Faun.There is a wonder in the air,A living beauty everywhere;As if the whole had ne’er been planned,But touched by Merlin’s famous wand,Suddenly woke beneath his handTo potent bliss in fairy show—A mighty ravishment of snow!
FFLOWERS upon the summer lea,Daisies, kingcups, pale primroses—These are sung from sea to sea,As many a darling rhyme discloses.Tangled wood and hawthorn daleIn many a songful snatch prevail;But never yet, as well I mind,In all their verses can I findA simple tune, with quiet flow,To match the falling of the snow.O weary passed each winter day,And windily howled each winter night;O miry grew each village way,And mists enfolded every height;And ever on the window paneA froward gust blew down with rain,And day by day in tawny brownThe Luggie stream came heaving down:—I could have fallen asleep and dreamedUntil again spring sunshine gleamed.And what! said I, is this the modeThat Winter kings it now-a-days?The Robin keeps its own abode,And pipes his independent lays.I’ve seen the day on Merkland hill,That snow has fallen with a will,Even in November! Now, alas;The whole year round we see the grass:—Ah, winter now may come and goWithout a single fall of snow.It was the latest day but oneOf winter, as I questioned thus;And sooth! an angry mood was on,As at a thing most scandalous;—When lo! some hailstones on the paneWith sudden tinkle rang amain,Till in an ecstasy of joyI clapp’d and shouted like a boy—Oh, rain may come and rain may go,But what can match the falling snow!It draped the naked sycamoreOn Foordcroft hill, above the well;The elms of Rosebank o’er and o’erWere silvered richly as it fell.The distant Campsie peaks were lost,And farthest Criftin with his hostOf gloomy pine-trees disappeared,Nor even a lonely ridge upreared.—Oh, rain may come and rain may go,But what can match the falling snow!Afar upon the Solsgirth moor,Each heather sprig of withered brownIs fringed with thread of silver pureAs slow the soft flakes waver down;And on Glenconner’s lonely path,And Gartshore’s still and open strath,It falleth, quiet as the birthOf morning o’er the quickening earth.—Oh, rain may come and rain may go,But what can match the falling snow!And all around our Merkland homeIs laid a sheet of virgin lawn;On fairer, softer, ne’er did roamThe nimble Oread or Faun.There is a wonder in the air,A living beauty everywhere;As if the whole had ne’er been planned,But touched by Merlin’s famous wand,Suddenly woke beneath his handTo potent bliss in fairy show—A mighty ravishment of snow!
FFLOWERS upon the summer lea,Daisies, kingcups, pale primroses—These are sung from sea to sea,As many a darling rhyme discloses.Tangled wood and hawthorn daleIn many a songful snatch prevail;But never yet, as well I mind,In all their verses can I findA simple tune, with quiet flow,To match the falling of the snow.
F
O weary passed each winter day,And windily howled each winter night;O miry grew each village way,And mists enfolded every height;And ever on the window paneA froward gust blew down with rain,And day by day in tawny brownThe Luggie stream came heaving down:—I could have fallen asleep and dreamedUntil again spring sunshine gleamed.
And what! said I, is this the modeThat Winter kings it now-a-days?The Robin keeps its own abode,And pipes his independent lays.I’ve seen the day on Merkland hill,That snow has fallen with a will,Even in November! Now, alas;The whole year round we see the grass:—Ah, winter now may come and goWithout a single fall of snow.
It was the latest day but oneOf winter, as I questioned thus;And sooth! an angry mood was on,As at a thing most scandalous;—When lo! some hailstones on the paneWith sudden tinkle rang amain,Till in an ecstasy of joyI clapp’d and shouted like a boy—Oh, rain may come and rain may go,But what can match the falling snow!
It draped the naked sycamoreOn Foordcroft hill, above the well;The elms of Rosebank o’er and o’erWere silvered richly as it fell.The distant Campsie peaks were lost,And farthest Criftin with his hostOf gloomy pine-trees disappeared,Nor even a lonely ridge upreared.—Oh, rain may come and rain may go,But what can match the falling snow!
Afar upon the Solsgirth moor,Each heather sprig of withered brownIs fringed with thread of silver pureAs slow the soft flakes waver down;And on Glenconner’s lonely path,And Gartshore’s still and open strath,It falleth, quiet as the birthOf morning o’er the quickening earth.—Oh, rain may come and rain may go,But what can match the falling snow!
And all around our Merkland homeIs laid a sheet of virgin lawn;On fairer, softer, ne’er did roamThe nimble Oread or Faun.There is a wonder in the air,A living beauty everywhere;As if the whole had ne’er been planned,But touched by Merlin’s famous wand,Suddenly woke beneath his handTo potent bliss in fairy show—A mighty ravishment of snow!