POETRY.
A GREY and leaden sky, without a break, Shuts in the narrow world whereon I look, And, day by day, mine ears almost forget To miss the babbling of the ice-bound brook. The woods stand rigid, ghostlike, draped in snow, Life is no longer there, nor pleasant sound, No breath is stirring in the bitter air, To bid them drop their burden to the ground. The drift lies deeply piled before my door, My little garden, touched by winter's breath, Laid cold and smooth beneath his icy hand, Looks stark and changeless as the bed of death. 'Tia thus my Heart, thy desolation chill Holds me, like cruel Winter, dumb and still.
IL—SPRDTG SORROW.
Spare me that clear, triumphant song of praise, Sweet thrush, with which thou welcomest the morn ; It wakes too keen a sorrow in my heart, Who sigh to think another day is born.
Ye opening buds, ye sounds and scents of spring, So deeply interwoven with the past, Ye touch the inmost fibre of my grief, And bring the bitter memories thronging fast.
Not less the lilac crowns herself with bloom, And bright laburnums shake their tasselled gold, - Nor does the violet breathe one odour less Because my life is left me dark and cold ; Only while earth and sky such joy express, I fain would turn me from their loveliness. A. E. J.
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