THE ARBOUR
I'll rest me in this sheltered
bower,
And look upon the clear
blue sky
That smiles upon me through
the trees,
Which stand so thick clustering
by;
And view their green and
glossy leaves,
All glistening in the sunshine
fair;
And list the rustling of
their boughs,
So softly whispering through
the air.
And while my ear drinks in
the sound,
My winged soul shall fly
away;
Reviewing lone departed
years
As one mild, beaming, autumn
day;
And soaring on to future
scenes,
Like hills and woods, and
valleys green,
All basking in the summer's
sun,
But distant still, and dimly
seen.
Oh, list! 'tis summer's very
breath
That gently shakes the rustling
trees--
But look! the snow is on
the ground--
How can I think of scenes
like these?
'Tis but the FROST that clears
the air,
And gives the sky that lovely
blue;They're smiling in a WINTER'S sun,
Those evergreens of sombre
hue.
And winter's chill is on
my heart--
How can I dream of future
bliss?
How can my spirit soar away,
Confined by such a chain
as this?
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