Classic Poem

At winter's numbing touch, the fields
Lie wither'd to a waste;
The trees their naked boughs extend,
Obnoxious to the blast.

The lifeless leaves blow here and there,
The sport of ev'ry wind;
And here and there the wood-birds flit,
But can no shelter find.

The skirting mountains, lately ting'd
With azure's airy hue,
In winter's hoary mantle clad,
Rise dazzling to the view.

Love, erst admirer of the plain,
To cottages retires,
Prevents the slumbers of the maid,
And kindles warm desires.

In the unfinish'd surrow lies
The plough, nor wounds the field;
The restless rivers cease to run,
In icy durance held.

Shorn of his rays, scarce does the sun
His glaring orb reveal;
But sudden sets: — Night fast behind
Unfolds her sable veil.

But, fields, rejoice! I see the spring
(Tho' distant) genial glow;
I see her verdant mantle spread,
I see her blossoms blow.

I see the warblers to the wood
A-nestling fast repair;
I see, disporting in the shade,
The loves and graces bare.

In mid-day splendor, see the fan
Melt down the mountain snow!
Impetuous, on every side,
The muddy torrents flow,

But in misfortune's cold embrace
No comfort smiles on me;
Joy saddens at my look, I live
New mis'ries but to see.

Before me ev'ry prospect low'rs,
Not one propitious ray
Of hope beams on my darken'd soul,
To light me on my way.

M IRA is absent! — all the same,
A field of flow'rs or snow;
Distant and neighb'ring suns afford
Like nourishment to woe.