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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,
And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY.
The day is ending,
The river dead.
Through clouds like ashes,
That glimmer red.
The snow recommences ;
The road o'er the plain ;
While through the meadows,
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.