Over the quivering surface of the stream,
Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream.

There is no dew on the dry grass to-night,
Nor damp within the shadow of the trees;
The wind is intermitting, dry, and light;
And in the inconstant motion of the breeze
The dust and straws are driven up and down,
And whirled about the pavement of the town.

The chasm in which the sun has sunk is shut
By darkest barriers of cinereous cloud,
Like mountain over mountain huddled, but
Growing and moving upwards in a crowd;
And over it a space of watery blue,

Which the keen evening star in shining through.

Now

Had in her sober livery all things clad;

Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,
Were slunk; all but the wakeful nightingale :
She all night long her amorous descant sung.
Silence was pleased; now glowed the firmament
With living sapphires. Hesperus, that led
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon,
Rising in clouded majesty, at length,
Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.

-John Milton.

POETRY OF WINTER.

BOSTON (MASS.) COMMON, IN THE BIG SNOWSTORM, FEBRUARY 1, 1898.

Poetry of Winter.

WINTER.

ASTLY came Winter cloathèd all in

LAS frize,

Chattering his teeth for cold that did him

chill;

Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze,

And the dull drops that from his purple

bill

As from a limbeck did adown distill;

In his right hand a tippèd staff he held With which his feeble steps he stayed still, For he was faint with cold and weak with

PROUD

ROUD Winter cometh like a warrior bold!

His icy lances flashing in the light,

His shield the night, starred bright with glittering gold,

His mail the silver frost-work, dazzling, bright!
He turns his stern face to the north, and waits
To hear his wind-steeds burst from heaven's gates.

He bringeth at his side the darkening storm,
He sifts white beauty down to deck the plain ;
The bleak, dark forest shivers to keep warm,
The brooks are bound with links of crystal chain;
The sheep bleat sadly by the pasture bars;
The night sighs in the darkness for her stars.

Yet many another mien, proud king of snow,
Hast thou when on the earth thine advent falls!
For I have seen thy pale face all aglow
With light as fair as floods the sunset halls!
And I have seen thee, like a gentle child,

Play softly on the hills, with laughter mild.

Ernest Warburton Shurtleff.

WINTER.

WEET Autumn is no longer bright,

And snow has wrapped the fields in white;
The little babbling rill,

That, when the summer days were long,
Did cheer Sky Farm with merry song,
Is icy, hushed, and still.

Upon the meadow's rounded side,

The dainty flowers have drooped and died;
Those messengers of song,