Lines

Lines

O COLDLY gleams the setting sun,

And the dews of eve are chill;

The flood is in the valley,

And the mist upon the hill.

November's blast comes sweeping

Through the forest lone and sere -

And the waning year goes creeping,

To her cold and wintry bier.

What matter. Spring is coming,

In a path bestrewn with flowers;

And joyous summer follows,

With the laughing, rosy hours;

And warm again will beam the sun,

And gently breathe the wind -

But when comes spring or summer

To the winter of the mind?

When the glow of life has faded,

And comes on the ague-chill -

And the spirit's spring is broken,

That mock'd each petty ill;

And the world's cold ways are round us -

And Hope no longer cheers -

And fond, bright dreams lie buried

In the ashes of past years.

Why what remains? To bear our fate

And breast the downward tide; -

And quell each weak and foolish plaint,

And patiently abide

Our earthly doom; and firmly keep

The spirit free from stain -

And calmly walk in duty's path -

We will not walk in vain:

For partial gleams of gladness

Will yet come, as of yore; -

And mirth leap up from sadness,

Though joy returns no more!

And temperate autumn's soothing thoughts

Will gently round us wind -

But ne'er come spring or summer

To the winter of the mind.

William Cox

1:19, p. 4

1837.05.13