  I love the snow flakes in the air, When from the heavens they downward dart; I love to watch them sailing there, Like thoughts freed from a poet’s heart, Uncertain which, the earth or sky, Should claim their last abiding place; And yet I watch them drifting by, And strive to join the airy race. The railway cars like spirits glide Through many a mountain’s haunted tomb, Above the river’s solemn tide, Along the ravine’s chilly room; On, on, through cedar groves we wind, That yesterday a zephyr wooed; To-day they stand with heads inclined, A sad and stricken multitude. The sky bends low with heavy clouds, And from the long slope of a hill, The pines look down in spotless shrouds Upon a valley whiter still. A tiny stream runs breathless by, Affrighted at the ghostly sight; The sun sleeps in the western sky, And twilight deepens into night. The train glides on. Each mountain scene Is like a panoramic view, Though oft I toward the window lean, To scan some object that I knew. I see a log hut in the vale, And rustic children glad and warm; A mother’s face, forlorn and pale, Looks out upon the winter storm. The little cascade down the glen Is falling like a mourner’s tears; The wind shrieks by, and from his den Jack Frost hangs out his icy spears, Defying e’en the piling drift; And while the Winter King he warns, Lo! through a cloud above the cliff, The young moon shakes her silver horns. Orion next his rage revealed, As if he, too, the insult felt; He raises high his club and shield, And swings his bright sword from his belt; And like a demon downward driven, The howling wind his dungeon seeks; For nature sees the hosts of heaven Resent her cold and heartless freaks. The storm grew still, and I could see The clouds above the cliff disband, E’en as the wave on Galilee Grew docile at the Lord’s command; And as I shake from off my pen The ink that stamped these pictures chill, I seem to hear those words again Breathed softly o’er me, “Peace, be still.” January, 1886. |
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