Again I looked at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.
I remember the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered,
"The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall!"
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
We wreathed about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright; Her little face looked out beneath
So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise,
That we could only say, "She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they."
So always from that happy time
We called her by their name, And very fitting did it seem,—
For sure as morning came, Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray, As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.
But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue, As turned her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew; And not so close their tendrils fine
Round their supports are thrown, As those dear arms whose outstretched plea
Clasped all hearts to her own.
We used to think how she had come,
Even as comes the flower, The last and perfect added gift
To crown Love's morning hour; And how in her was imaged forth
The love we could not say, As on the little dewdrops round
Shines back the heart of day.