The Ghosts Of Growth.

Last night it snowed; and Nature fell asleep.
Forest and field lie tranced in gracious dreams
Of growth, for ghosts of leaves long dead, me-seems,
Hover about the boughs; and wild winds sweep
O'er whitened fields full many a hoary heap
From the storm-harvest mown by ice-bound streams!
With beauty of crushed clouds the cold earth teems,
And winter a tranquil-seeming truce would keep.
But such ethereal slumber may not bide
The ascending sun's bright scorn - not long, I fear;
And all its visions on the golden tide
Of mid-noon gliding off, must disappear.
Fair dreams, farewell! So in life's stir and pride
You fade, and leave the treasure of a tear!