  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 on land or on sea, For nothing is what I desire it to be." Say, Pessimist, say, while you grumble and fret, Know ye not there is One who your needs won't forget? Think ye the kind Father of wisdom so great Forgetteth the things which His hands did create? The sparrow sings neither by day nor by night, Yet He, in His tenderness, guideth its flight. He maketh the lily of waxen-white hue, And feeds it on showers, on sunshine and dew; Yet lives there a king in such garments arrayed? Such beauty as robes this sweet flower of the glade? In rapturous reign, the cool waters beside, It looks up and trusts, and its needs are supplied. The richest of treasures to thee will be given, If thou, like the lily, wilt look up to heaven. |
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