A WINTER NIGHT'S THOUGHT.
Hark to the wind! The snow falls fast to-night.
By morn, all down the road-sides 'twill lie blown
In beautiful shapes and curves. Against the panes
It has lodged heavily.
How many suns
Since last, at dawn, I heard the gay south-west
Come piping up the vales, one little cloud
Borne on its bosom as a shepherd bears
The youngling of the flock?
From out this mad
Contending of blent voices, Fancy calls
Shapes of a ruder mould. To-night, believe,
By morn, all down the road-sides 'twill lie blown
In beautiful shapes and curves. Against the panes
It has lodged heavily.
How many suns
Since last, at dawn, I heard the gay south-west
Come piping up the vales, one little cloud
Borne on its bosom as a shepherd bears
The youngling of the flock?
From out this mad
Contending of blent voices, Fancy calls
Shapes of a ruder mould. To-night, believe,
