Classic Poem

I DO not love the snow: it softly falls
Like an angelic footstep on our paths,
But it divideth me
From those I love; and, though its starry flakes
Of geometric beauty charm my eye,
I wish it soon away.

Sweet are the airs of spring: the warm, bright days,
So welcome to the winter-wearied hearts,
Are ever hailed by me,
The herald of the long, bright summer hours,
With floral loveliness and song of birds,
And leafy shrub and tree.

And oh, how welcome to this heart of mine
The lingering glory of the autumn days!
When earth seems newly clad
In robes of royalty; and on our paths
The golden-rod and aster speak of heaven,
And all things pure and glad.

And these bright hours, how do they cheer the heart
Amid Life's many cares and burdens great!
How speak they oft to me
Of other years, in God's great future held,
Sweet foretaste of some better days to come,
The Eden yet to be!

But thou, O Father of the human soul!
The green earth lies beneath thy plastic hand,
And the pure, feathery snow,
Falling all softly through the wintry day,
Obeys thy high behests, as do the flowers
That on earth's carpet glow.

Man must breast storm, or be a pygmy still;
And only puny souls that would not grow
Will sigh when called to bear
Or buffet: they who would be grand
And noble pillars in thy temple fair
Must joy and sorrow share,—

Must bear the cross the glorious crown to win;
Must tread the thorny path to gather blossoms sweet
At last in Eden's bowers;
And looking upward through the blinding snow,
Or leaping o'er its barricades in faith,
Wait for the golden hours.

So do I wait: O soul of mine, be still!
Life hath its promise of fruition sweet,
When, in God's clearer sight,
The fulness of our time shall fully come,
And Love shall conquer, and the tyrant wrong
Shall be subdued by right.