A feeling of sadness and longing, As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling. And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Whose distant footsteps echo For, like strains of martial music, And to-night I long for rest. 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 music, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. THE day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes, The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red. The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o'er the plain; While through the meadows, 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. |