’Twas but the embers crumbling in the grate,
Loud on the icy Night. Awakened so
Musing I stood to recollect, and lo!
My lips had formed to prayer.—
Then thro’ the gloom I gat me to my sleep.
TO A THRUSH
Singing one Spring morn ’mid deepest fog
Throstle-bird!
I have heard
This thy voice of cheer,