Winter World

How came from heaven the prismy rainbow hither?Whither are fled the lovely field-flowers, whither?Where the streams music, where the birds' sweet singing?Where are the spring and summer's glance and glory?All—all departed,—but their memory ringingLike a funereal bell—records their story:Shades of the tomb—the snows—the clouds are left,Winter has beggared earth—the earth of all bereft.

Yes! earth is but a beggar—a white garmentHalf covering its frame—a mortal cerement!With icicles down-hanging, but so jagged,That through the crevices the corpse is peeping,With chattering teeth—limbs frozen—girdle ragged,A shivering coldness o'er the body creeping:Why should man midst the desolation roam,If he find warmth and welcome in his home?

Blessed be God then! blessed be kind Heaven!Who a bright fire—a family hearth has given;A family hearth, to warm in winter's chilling,And many friends around; and wood not wantingTo feed the fire—'tis like a palace thrillingWith joy and music—fairy-like, enchanting;Where all the friendly words outspoken enterThe opening hearts, and make those hearts their centre.

Sweetest of all at eve—then most rejoicesThe listening soul to hear affection's voices;At the large table head, the father hoaryPresides—the pipes are smoking——from the cellarThe best old wine goes round, and many a storyIs told, while loud laughs hail the story-teller:New tales, new laughter, greet the circling cupFilled up and emptied and again filled up.

And the good housewife everywhere is busy,Somewhat o'ercumbered, and a little dizzy;Fearful of this or that to be forgetful;Somewhat too anxious for her house's honour;Yet all her fidgets will not make her fretful,Tho' a neglect might bring a shame upon her.For every guest she has a smile—a greeting—And a kind word of welcome to the meeting.

Then comes the news—more laughter, and more joking;Cleansing the pipes, or stopping them, or smoking;And as the smoke in cloudy wreaths is mounting,Memory brings back the tales of days departed;And while the old stories of their youth recounting,Youth dawns again, and buoyant and lighthearted;Spring seems renewed in all its early truth,For age rejoices in the thoughts of youth.

Look at that youth and maiden on the settle,All the old babblings interest them little;Little care they for all the tales and tattle,Life is before them—with its dear illusions;Sweeter their whisperings than the rout and rattle,Why should misgivings come with their intrusions?Let them be blest—enjoy their stolen kisses;Love has its blisses—and these are love's blisses.

There round the stove the little ones are humming,Leaping and laughing, whistling, shouting, drumming;Small children and great children there are pilingOr blowing down card houses—far from sorrow;Like butterflies they hail the present smiling,For yesterday they care not, nor to-morrow.How so much room can such small space allow,The Future and the Past, how crowd into a Now?

'Tis baking-day to-morrow, the maiden singing brightly,The yielding dough she kneads, so gaily and so lightly;Within the yard the bucket chain above the well is grating,The horses gathered round the trough the sparkling water drinking;The gypsies, offering dance and song, are for the answer waiting—While from the distance feebly-heard the sheepfold bells are clinking;But every sound and every sight ascending or descending,From earth to heaven, or heaven to earth, in harmony is blending.

The snow is falling fast, the earth is mantled over,Mists darken—and 'tis hard the house-path to discover:There's work to do—there's hardly time for greetings and farewellings,—Away! away! for long ere now the homely lamps are lighted,—We must be gone—'tis late, 'tis late—how shall we find our dwellings?The lamps are all gone out, the guests are all benighted,And still they counsel, still they talk, their purpose scarcely knowing,And many ask, "Who's going?"—none will answer, "I am going."