You are here
قراءة كتاب Snowflakes
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 5
may go, and there pillow my head 'neath the tree
Where robin and oriole chirrup in glee,
While my soul slips away from the spot that I love,
To old-fashioned gardens that grow up above.
DANCE OF THE RIPPLES.
I stood, one night, by the old St. Joe,
Where the moonbeams love to loiter;
Watching the ripples come and go
And the willow trees their shadows throw
On the mystic, murm'ring water.
As I lingered there on the vine-clad bank,
Where the pale rays glint and quiver
Through the silvered leaves, a perfumed breeze
So softly swayed the willow trees,
And dappled the laughing river.
The waters murmured so low and sweet,
Then an echo, soft and clear,—
Not the sound of lute or song of bird,
But the sweetest music ever heard,
Fell on my enchanted ear.
The silvered ripples all leaped for joy!
And over the waters glancing
I saw, in the light, a pretty sight;
In an ecstasy of glad delight,
The ripples all were dancing.
They danced in the midst where the stars look down—
No shadowy branch to hide them;
They danced where the willows kiss the stream,
Then back again in the moonlight's gleam,
And the fish peeped out and eyed them.
They danced in the shade of the iron bridge,
Where the aspen's shadows play;
And the great moon smiled as the dancers fled,
And spangles dropped on each little head,
As they laughed and danced away.
THE PESSIMIST.
Arrayed in a garment of fleeciest down,
The Winter-king rides over meadows so brown;
Through wild wailing woodlands so stark and so bare,
He rides on the wind to the great everywhere.
He dresses the trees in the daintiest gown;
And over each window in country and town,
With fairy-like fingers, unheard and unseen,
He pictures, in crystal and silvery sheen,
Most beautiful cities with steeples and towers,
And wild tangled mazes bespangled with flowers.
But 'mid the sweet music of jingling bells
You hear the old pessimist counting his ills.
With a sorrowful shake of the head murmurs he,
"Such nasty cold weather I never did see;
The streets are so slip'ry one can't walk at all,
For danger of breaking a leg by a fall;
Unless a few days bring a great change about,
The wheat in the ground will be all frozen out."
But roguish old Winter soon bundles his pack
Of ice, frost, and snow, on his jolly old back,
And hies to the mountain, but leaves in his stead
The Goddess of Love, with the blossom-crowned head;
And a breath that is filled with the nectar and dew,
She stole from the heart of the violet blue;
A voice—O, the music that swells on the air
From fresh-budding woodland, from hedge,—everywhere,
Caressed by the sunlight and bathed by the showers,
She walks on a carpet of mosses and flowers.
Again comes the pessimist, grumpy and grim,
And says the fair goddess has no charms for him.
"'Tis raining too often, the corn and the wheat
Will rot in the ground; there'll be nothing to eat;
Besides, the old crow, in his greedy delight,
Now raideth the cornfields from morning till night.
A famine is certain! 'Tis sure to prevail!"
And thus the old pessimist keeps up his wail.
At last this fair goddess descends from the throne,
Gives place to another we've all loved and known.
Her crown is of roses, her garment of grain,
With silken folds falling and rising again,
As scent-laden wind o'er their soft billows plays;
Enraptured, she basks in the blue summer haze,
Till bliss is dissolved into tear-laden showers,
That drench all the trees and refresh all the flowers.
As softly they fall on the roof o'er our heads,
O, the sleep-haunted rapture their lullaby sheds!
Though harvest with plenty his gran'ries hath filled,
The murmuring pessimist never is stilled.
He says, as he brushes the sweat from his brow,
"I don't see the use of such hot weather now;
'Twill dry up the fruit, the grapes on the vine—
Unless there's a change, they will yield us no wine."
And thus the old pessimist grumbles away
The brightness and joy of the long summer day.
He teases the evening, he teases the morn,
Until the fair Goddess of Autumn is born.
She comes heavy-laden with fruit from the vine,
Sweet clusters that drip with the mellowest wine;
And rosy-cheeked fruit from the old apple-tree,
And ears that are golden as golden can be.
Enrobed in a garment of crimson and brown,
A garland of goldenrod forming her crown,
In the mystic delight of the autumn she stands,
And showers her gifts o'er the pessimist's lands;
While he from his orchard-land turns in disgust,
Saying, "Labor avails me but dust, mould, and rust;
The winter comes on altogether too fast,
The corn that's unhusked will be caught in the blast;
My bills, they increase, while my business is slow;
I soon shall be broken and bankrupt, I know!
There's no satisfaction