A Snow Storm.
By Thomas Frederick Young
I hear the wintry wind again,
I see the blinding snow,
Pil'd high, by eddying winds, in heaps,
No matter where I go.
The storm is raging hard, without;
But let us not complain,
For fiercely tho' it rages now,
A calm will come again.
And, though the wildly raging storm
Makes all things bleak and bare,
Beside the fire we brave it well,
And closer draw our chair.
In social fellowship, our hearts
With kindly thoughts grow warm;
Then is there not a pleasant side,
E'en to a raging storm?
And when the angry storm has calm'd,
As ev'ry storm must do,
Then, sure, the tempest's handiwork,
Has pleasant features, too.
An artist's eye would look around,
Upon these calmer days,
And view the pure white heaps of snow,
With pleas'd and puzzl'd gaze.
Like purest marble, deftly carv'd,
They stretch o'er vale and hill,
Fair monuments, not made by man,
But rear'd by nature's skill.
The sweeping curve, the graceful arch,
The line so firm and free;
A skilful sculptor well might say:
"Can this teach aught to me?"
The trees are rob'd in purest white,
And gleaming atoms shine
From out the snow, beneath the sun,
Like stones from Ophir's mine.
The merry shouts of busy men
Sound, as they dig the snow;
And, when the way is clear, the bells
With joyful jingle, go.
Then who shall say the tempest's work
Brings more of pain than joy;
Or that the evil things, to us
Are pain, without alloy?