Winter
Sad soul — dear heart, O why repine?
The melancholy tale is plain —
The leaves of spring, the summer flowers
Have bloomed and died again.
The sweet and silver-sandalled Dew
Which like a maiden fed the flowers,
Hath waned into the beldame Frost,
And walked amid our bowers.
Some buds there were — sad hearts, be still! —
Which looked awhile unto the sky,
Then breathed but once or twice, to tell
How sweetest things may die!
And some must blight where many bloom; —
But, blight or bloom, the fruit must fall!
Why sigh for spring or summer flowers,
Since Winter gathers all?
He gathers all — but chide him not —
He wraps them in his mantle cold,
And folds them close, as best he can,
For he is blind and old.
Sad soul — dear heart, no more repine —
The tale is beautiful and plain:
Surely as Winter taketh all,
The Spring shall bring again.
The melancholy tale is plain —
The leaves of spring, the summer flowers
Have bloomed and died again.
The sweet and silver-sandalled Dew
Which like a maiden fed the flowers,
Hath waned into the beldame Frost,
And walked amid our bowers.
Some buds there were — sad hearts, be still! —
Which looked awhile unto the sky,
Then breathed but once or twice, to tell
How sweetest things may die!
And some must blight where many bloom; —
But, blight or bloom, the fruit must fall!
Why sigh for spring or summer flowers,
Since Winter gathers all?
He gathers all — but chide him not —
He wraps them in his mantle cold,
And folds them close, as best he can,
For he is blind and old.
Sad soul — dear heart, no more repine —
The tale is beautiful and plain:
Surely as Winter taketh all,
The Spring shall bring again.
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