| The snow and the silence came down together, |
| Through the night so white and so still; |
| And young folks housed from the bitter weather, |
| Housed from the storm and the chill— |
| |
| Heard in their dreams the sleigh-bells jingle, |
| Coasted the hill-sides under the moon, |
| Felt their cheeks with the keen air tingle, |
| Skimmed the ice with their steel-clad shoon. |
| |
| They saw the snow when they rose in the morning, |
| Glittering ghosts of the vanished night, |
| Though the sun shone clear in the winter dawning, |
| And the day with a frosty pomp was bright. |
| |
| Out in the clear, cold, winter weather— |
| Out in the winter air, like wine— |
| Kate with her dancing scarlet feather, |
| Bess with her peacock plumage fine, |
| |
|
| Joe and Jack with their pealing laughter, |
| Frank and Tom with their gay hallo, |
| And half a score of roisterers after, |
| Out in the witching, wonderful snow, |
| |
| Shivering graybeards shuffle and stumble, |
| Righting themselves with a frozen frown, |
| Grumbling at every snowy tumble; |
| But young folks know why the snow came down. |
| |
| Louise Chandler Moulton. |
| Closed eyes can't see the white roses, |
| Cold hands can't hold them, you know; |
| Breath that is stilled cannot gather |
| The odors that sweet from them blow. |
| Death, with a peace beyond dreaming, |
| Its children of earth doth endow; |
| Life is the time we can help them, |
| So give them the flowers now! |
| |
| Here are the struggles and striving, |
| Here are the cares and the tears; |
| Now is the time to be smoothing |
| The frowns and the furrows and fears. |
| What to closed eyes are kind sayings? |
| What to hushed heart is deep vow? |
| Naught can avail after parting, |
| So give them the flowers now! |
| |
| Just a kind word or a greeting; |
| Just a warm grasp or a smile— |
| These are the flowers that will lighten |
| The burdens for many a mile. |
| After the journey is over |
| What is the use of them; how |
| Can they carry them who must be carried? |
| Oh, give them the flowers now! |
| |
| Blooms from the happy heart's garden, |
| Plucked in the spirit of love; |
| Blooms that are earthly reflections |
| Of flowers that blossom above. |
| Words cannot tell what a measure |
| Of blessing such gifts will allow |
| To dwell in the lives of many, |
| So give them the flowers now! |
| |
| Leigh M. Hodges. |
| Some die too late and some too soon, |
| At early morning, heat of noon, |
| Or the chill evening twilight. Thou, |
| Whom the rich heavens did so endow |
| With eyes of power and Jove's own brow, |
| With all the massive strength that fills |
| Thy home-horizon's granite hills, |
| With rarest gifts of heart and head |
| From manliest stock inherited— |
| New England's stateliest type of man, |
| In port and speech Olympian; |
| Whom no one met, at first, but took |
| A second awed and wondering look |
| (As turned, perchance, the eyes of Greece |
| On Phidias' unveiled masterpiece); |
| Whose words, in simplest home-spun clad, |
| The Saxon strength of Caedmon's had, |
| With power reserved at need to reach |
| The Roman forum's loftiest speech, |
| Sweet with persuasion, eloquent |
| In passion, cool in argument, |
| Or, ponderous, falling on thy foes |
| As fell the Norse god's hammer blows. |
| Crushing as if with Talus' flail |
| Through Error's logic-woven mail, |
| And failing only when they tried |
| The adamant of the righteous side,— |
| Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved |
| Of old friends, by the new deceived, |
| Too soon for us, too soon for thee, |
| Beside thy lonely Northern sea, |
| Where long and low the marsh-lands spread, |
| Laid wearily down thy august head. |
| Thou shouldst have lived to feel below |
| Thy feet Disunion's fierce upthrow,— |
| The late-sprung mine that underlaid |
| Thy sad concessions vainly made. |
| |
| Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's wall |
| The star-flag of the Union fall, |
| And armed Rebellion pressing on |
| The broken lines of Washington! |
| No stronger voice than thine had then |
| Called out the utmost might of men, |
| To make the Union's charter free |
| And strengthen law by liberty. |
| How had that stern arbitrament |
| To thy gray age youth's vigor lent, |
| Shaming ambition's paltry prize |
| Before thy disillusioned eyes; |
| Breaking the spell about thee wound |
| Like the green withes that Samson bound; |
| Redeeming, in one effort grand, |
| Thyself and thy imperiled land! |
| Ah cruel fate, that closed to thee, |
| O sleeper by the Northern sea, |
| The gates of opportunity! |
| God fills the gaps of human need, |
| Each crisis brings its word and deed. |
| Wise men and strong we did not lack; |
| But still, with memory turning back, |
| In the dark hours we thought of thee, |
| And thy lone grave beside the sea. |
| |
| Above that grave the east winds blow, |
| And from the marsh-lands drifting slow |
| The sea-fog comes, with evermore |
| The wave-wash of a lonely shore, |
| And sea-bird's melancholy cry, |
| As Nature fain would typify |
| The sadness of a closing scene, |
| The loss of that which should have been. |
| But, where thy native mountains bare |
| Their foreheads to diviner air, |
| Fit emblem of enduring fame, |
| One lofty summit keeps thy name. |
| For thee the cosmic forces did |
| The rearing of that pyramid, |
| The prescient ages shaping with |
| Fire, flood, and frost thy monolith. |
| Sunrise and sunset lay thereon |
| With hands of light their benison, |
| The stars of midnight pause to set |
| Their jewels in its coronet. |
| And evermore that mountain mass |
| Seems climbing from the shadowy pass |
| To light, as if to manifest |
| Thy nobler self, they life at best! |
| |
| John G. Whittier. |