Read from some humble poet, Whose songs gush'd from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labour, Such songs have power to quiet Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. The day is ending, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes, The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red. The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o'er the plain; While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows, Slowly passes A funeral train. The bell is pealing, To the dismal knell; Shadows are trailing, Like a funeral bell. |