POEMS.
57
The steps of winter, silently,
Came stealing o'er the earth,
And the flowers bent them down to die,
And the leaves forgot their mirth;
And the nightingale, without a look
Of gratitude or pain,
The high and stately oak forsook
For its woodbine home again.
Came stealing o'er the earth,
And the flowers bent them down to die,
And the leaves forgot their mirth;
And the nightingale, without a look
Of gratitude or pain,
The high and stately oak forsook
For its woodbine home again.
Then the tree's proud heart with shame was torn,
So lightly prized to be;
And the woods around beheld with scorn
Its slighted majesty.
The glow-worms in their leafy bower
Laughed gleefully below,
And shook with mirth each forest flower,
Its lowered pride to know.
So lightly prized to be;
And the woods around beheld with scorn
Its slighted majesty.
The glow-worms in their leafy bower
Laughed gleefully below,
And shook with mirth each forest flower,
Its lowered pride to know.
But though so long thrown coldly by,
The ivy nearer drew,
And o'er the drooping branches nigh
Its brightest leaves it threw;
And never when the dewy spring
Came forth in beauty free,
Did the ivy e'er so firmly cling,
As round that humbled tree.
The ivy nearer drew,
And o'er the drooping branches nigh
Its brightest leaves it threw;
And never when the dewy spring
Came forth in beauty free,
Did the ivy e'er so firmly cling,
As round that humbled tree.
