Then the night-silence, long and deep, And shortly through the eastern haze -James Berry Bensel. FEBRUARY RAIN. LONELY day! No sounds are heard pour, And timid fluting of a bird, That pipes one low note o'er and o'er. Before the blast the bare trees lean, O day most meet for memories, On that which was and that which is, And yet this dark and dreary day A faint foretoken of the spring. Beneath the ceaseless-beating rain. As sorrow pressing on the brain, And thus in darkness oft is wrought, UNDER THE SNOW. T is pleasant to think, just under the snow, It is hidden now; not a glimmer breaks Through the hard blue ice and the sparkling drift. The world shrinks back from the downy flakes Which out of the fold of the night-cloud sift. But as fair and real a world it is As any that rolls in the upper blue; And often now when the skies are wild, And hoarse and sullen the night winds blow, And lanes and hollows with drifts are piled, I think of the violets under the snow; I look in the wild-flower's tremulous eye, I hear the chirp of the groundbird brown; So there, from the outer sense concealed, It lies, shut in by a veil of snow; But there, to the inward eye revealed, Are boughs that blossom and flowers that glow. The lily shines on its bending stem, The crocus opens its April gold, Ο - Fay Hempstead. MY WINDOW IVY. VER my window the ivy climbs, But all the day it looks at the sun, And at night looks out at the stars. The dust of the room may dim its green, "Come in, come in, good friend of mine! So the ivy thrives from morn to morn, Its leaves all turned to the light; And it gladdens my soul with its tender green, And teaches me day and night. What though the dust of earth would dim? That will sweep through my soul if I let it in, Dear God! let me grow from day to day, Though planted in shade, Thy window is near, And my leaves may turn to the light. - Mary Mapes Dodge. From "Along the Way." Copyright 1879, by Mary Mapes Dodge. THE IVY GREEN. H, a dainty plant is the ivy green, OH That creepeth o'er ruins old! On right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the moldering dust that years have made, Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a stanch old heart has he; How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend, the huge oak-tree! And he joyously twines and hugs around Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten on the past; For the stateliest building man can raise Creeping where time has been, A rare old plant is the ivy green. VE Maria! blessed be the hour, The time, the clime, the spot, when I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft; While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day hymn stole aloft; And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer, Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart -Lord George Noel Gordon Byron. |