THE GHOSTS OF GROWTH.
Last night it snowed; and Nature fell asleep.
Forest and field lie tranced in gracious dreams
Of growth, for ghosts of leaves long dead, me-seems,
Hover about the boughs; and wild winds sweep
O'er whitened fields full many a hoary heap
From the storm-harvest mown by ice-bound streams!
With beauty of crushed clouds the cold earth teems,
And winter a tranquil-seeming truce would keep.
But such ethereal slumber may not bide
The ascending sun's bright scorn—not long, I fear;
And all its visions on the golden tide
Of mid-noon gliding off, must disappear.
Fair dreams, farewell! So in life's stir and pride
You fade, and leave the treasure of a tear!
THE LILY-POND.
Some fairy spirit with his wand,
I think, has hovered o'er the dell,
And spread this film upon the pond,
And touched it with this drowsy spell.
For here the musing soul is merged
In moods no other scene can bring,
And sweeter seems the air when scourged
With wandering wild-bees' murmuring.
One ripple streaks the little lake,
Sharp purple-blue; the birches, thin
And silvery, crowd the edge, yet break
To let a straying sunbeam in.
How came we through the yielding wood,
That day, to this sweet-rustling shore?
Oh, there together while we stood,
A butterfly was wafted o'er,
In sleepy light; and even now
His glimmering beauty doth return
Upon me, when the soft winds blow,
And lilies toward the sunlight yearn.
The yielding wood? And yet 't was both
To yield unto our happy march;
Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both
Could pass its green, elastic arch.