. Through the year with birds and poets [poems]; . y who pile them beneath the treesHear thy lay in the autumn breeze. Comes November, sullen and with frost the rivulets , hoarse winds from the woodlands tearEach brown leaf that is chnging thou singest, amid the blast, Soon is the dreariest season past. 16 THROUGH THE YEAR Only when Christmas snow-storms makeSmooth white levels of river and lake,Sifting the light flakes all day long,Only then do we miss thy song;Sure to hear it again when soonClimbs the sun to a higher noon. Now, when tidings that make men
. Through the year with birds and poets [poems]; . y who pile them beneath the treesHear thy lay in the autumn breeze. Comes November, sullen and with frost the rivulets , hoarse winds from the woodlands tearEach brown leaf that is chnging thou singest, amid the blast, Soon is the dreariest season past. 16 THROUGH THE YEAR Only when Christmas snow-storms makeSmooth white levels of river and lake,Sifting the light flakes all day long,Only then do we miss thy song;Sure to hear it again when soonClimbs the sun to a higher noon. Now, when tidings that make men pale —Tidings of slaughter — load the gale ;While from the distant camp there comeBoom of cannon and roll of drum,Still thou singest, beside my door, Soon is the stormiest season oer. Ever thus sing cheerfully of Hope ! as in ages gone;Sing of spring-time and summer-shades,Autumns pomp when the summer fades,Storms that fly from the conquering by enduring valor won. William Cullen permission of D. Appleton & Song Sparrow WITH BIRDS AND POETS l^ THE SONG-SPARROW Glimmers gray the leafless thicket Close beside my garden gate,Where so light, from post to picketHops the sparrow, blithe, sedate;Who, with meekly folded to sun himself and sing. It was there, perhaps, last year,That his little house he built;For he seems to perk and peer,And to twitter, too, and tiltThe bare branches in a fond, familiar mien. Once, I know, there was a nest. Held there by a sideward thrustOf those twigs that touch his breast;Though tis gone now. Some rude gustCaught it, over-full of snow, —Bent the bush, — and stole it so. Thus our highest holds are the ruthless winters , with swift-dismantling green woods we dwelt in, thinndOf their leafage, grow too coldFor frail hopes of summers mold. 18 THROUGH THE YEAR But if we, with spring days mellow, Wake to woeful wrecks of change,And the sparrows ritornello Scaling stil
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