And the night shall be filled with music, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 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 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, To the dismal knell; Shadows are trailing, And tolling within Like a funeral bell. TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. WELCOME, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn Shake the windows. The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee. There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, At the alehouse. Soiled and dull thou art; Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn. Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, As these leaves with the libations Of Olympus. Yet dost thou recall Days departed, half forgotten, |