WINTER.
Sad soul—dear heart, O why repine?
The melancholy tale is plain;
The leaves of spring, the summer flowers
Have bloomed and died again.
The sweet and silver-sandaled Dew,
Which, like a maiden, fed the flowers,
Hath waned into the beldame Frost,
And walked amid our bowers.
Some buds there were—sad hearts, be still!
Which looked awhile unto the sky,
Then breathed but once or lived, to tell
How sweetest things may die!
And some must blight where many bloom;
But, blight or bloom, the fruit must fall!
Why sigh for spring or summer flowers,
Since winter gathers all?
He gathers all—but chide him not;
He wraps them in his mantle cold,
And folds them close, as best he can,
For he is blind and old.
Sad soul—dear heart, no more repine—
The tale is beautiful and plain:
Surely as winter taketh all,
The spring shall bring again.
T. B. Read.