A Winter Piece

The time has been that these wild solitudes,Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by meOftener than now; and when the ills of lifeHad chafed my spirit--when the unsteady pulseBeat with strange flutterings--I would wander forthAnd seek the woods. The sunshine on my pathWas to me as a friend. The swelling hills,The quiet dells retiring far between,With gentle invitation to exploreTheir windings, were a calm societyThat talked with me and soothed me. Then the chantOf birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caressOf the fresh sylvan air, made me forgetThe thoughts that broke my peace, and I beganTo gather simples by the fountain's brink,And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stoodIn nature's loneliness, I was with oneWith whom I early grew familiar, oneWho never had a frown for me, whose voiceNever rebuked me for the hours I stoleFrom cares I loved not, but of which the worldDeems highest, to converse with her. When shriekedThe bleak November winds, and smote the woods,And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades,That met above the merry rivulet,Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still,--they seemedLike old companions in adversity.Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook,Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gayAs with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar,The village with its spires, the path of streams,And dim receding valleys, hid beforeBy interposing trees, lay visibleThrough the bare grove, and my familiar hauntsSeemed new to me. Nor was I slow to comeAmong them, when the clouds, from their still skirts,Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow,And all was white. The pure keen air abroad,Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heardLove-call of bird, nor merry hum of bee,Was not the air of death. Bright mosses creptOver the spotted trunks, and the close buds,That lay along the boughs, instinct with life,Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring,Feared not the piercing spirit of the North.The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough,And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bentBeneath its bright cold burden, and kept dryA circle, on the earth, of withered leaves,The partridge found a shelter. Through the snowThe rabbit sprang away. The lighter trackOf fox, and the racoon's broad path, were there,Crossing each other. From his hollow tree,The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nutsJust fallen, that asked the winter cold and swayOf winter blast, to shake them from their hold.

But Winter has yet brighter scenes,--he boastsSplendours beyond what gorgeous Summer knows;Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woodsAll flushed with many hues. Come when the rainsHave glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice;While the slant sun of February poursInto the bowers a flood of light. Approach!The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,And the broad arching portals of the groveWelcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunksAre cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,Is studded with its trembling water-drops,That stream with rainbow radiance as they move.But round the parent stem the long low boughsBend, in a glittering ring, and arbours hideThe glassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spotThe spacious cavern of some virgin mine,Deep in the womb of earth--where the gems grow,And diamonds put forth radiant rods and budWith amethyst and topaz--and the placeLit up, most royally, with the pure beamThat dwells in them. Or haply the vast hallOf fairy palace, that outlasts the night,And fades not in the glory of the sun;--Where crystal columns send forth slender shaftsAnd crossing arches; and fantastic aislesWind from the sight in brightness, and are lostAmong the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye,--Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault;There the blue sky and the white drifting cloudLook in. Again the wildered fancy dreamsOf spouting fountains, frozen as they rose,And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air,And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light;Light without shade. But all shall pass awayWith the next sun. From numberless vast trunks,Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a soundLike the far roar of rivers, and the eveShall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont.

And it is pleasant, when the noisy streamsAre just set free, and milder suns melt offThe plashy snow, save only the firm driftIn the deep glen or the close shade of pines,--'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smokeRoll up among the maples of the hill,Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakesThe shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph,That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops,Falls, mid the golden brightness of the morn,Is gathered in with brimming pails, and oft,Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axeMakes the woods ring. Along the quiet air,Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds,Such as you see in summer, and the windsScarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft,Where the cold breezes come not, blooms aloneThe little wind-flower, whose just opened eyeIs blue as the spring heaven it gazes at--Startling the loiterer in the naked grovesWith unexpected beauty, for the timeOf blossoms and green leaves is yet afar.And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oftMuster their wrath again, and rapid cloudsShade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earthShall fall their volleyed stores rounded like hail,And white like snow, and the loud North againShall buffet the vexed forest in his rage.