. Nature's allegories and poems . , till bya kindly hand we were guided hither tobe cured of our willfulness and pointed to our error.^ You are right, replied the contritegardenia, ours it is to bloom in ourallotted sphere, one not better than an-other, all living our flower-day life, simply,cheerfully and contentedly. She ceased, and darkness wrappedthe spot. The following day the dead flowers werepicked up from the dressing table wherethey had lain and were thrown from thewindow into the garden below. -^ 32 III. Cf)e l^ilti WinU asioto. THE WILD WINDS BLOW. The wild winds blowOer the bleak m
. Nature's allegories and poems . , till bya kindly hand we were guided hither tobe cured of our willfulness and pointed to our error.^ You are right, replied the contritegardenia, ours it is to bloom in ourallotted sphere, one not better than an-other, all living our flower-day life, simply,cheerfully and contentedly. She ceased, and darkness wrappedthe spot. The following day the dead flowers werepicked up from the dressing table wherethey had lain and were thrown from thewindow into the garden below. -^ 32 III. Cf)e l^ilti WinU asioto. THE WILD WINDS BLOW. The wild winds blowOer the bleak moor side,Through the naked forestThe stream doth glide. The trunks of the treesAre bare and brown,And the twigs by the windAre shaken down. Oer the soft moist earthWhere the dead leaves lie,The sharp March breezeIs sweeping by. Oer the marshy moorWhere the reeds grow wildAnd the rushes bowTo Springs first child. A desolate dayLike the desolate heart,Ere the warn: sun of loveDoth life imp ait 35 :,■■ r ,j5- fe^—W NIGHT WHISPERERS. The tarn lay still. Its cradle, gloomy,melancholy, and dull, sunk deeply at thebase of the mountains, weird and awful inthe majesty of might and solitude. Slug-gish and dreamless was the waters sleepbeneath the chill bleak twilight sky; grayshadows, phantom-like, stole over theground; the lingering light of daygleamed fainter with expiring life; thewind moaned piteously and sighed, as withreluctant will he swept with fitful guststhe bleak moorside and mount-lockedtarn, and rustled with his mournful breaththe rushes round the wild ducks pressed the loving bosom of themother bird upon her sleeping broodof young, and, calling in wonder to hermate who lay as boat at anchor on the 39 sleepy surface of the tarn, she said. ^ Why moans the wind? What seekshe in his nights bleak wanderings? Whysighs he so? His voice is lonesome, sad. ^I know not; ask him, when again hecomes, what sorrow is it that he carrieson his wings. ^^I will,
Size: 1349px × 1851px
Photo credit: © Reading Room 2020 / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, bookidnaturesalleg, bookyear1903
