Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, Still heard in his soul the music Such songs have power to quiet And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with And the cares, that infest the Shall fold their tents, like the Ar And as silently steal away. AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. THE day is ending, The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes, The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red. The snow recomme The buried fences Mark no longer The road o'er the While through the m Like fearful shadows. Slowly passes A funeral train. The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal knell Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a funeral bell. |