October turned my maple's leaves to gold; The most are gone now; here and there one lingers: Soon these will slip from out the twigs' weak hold, Like coins between a dying miser's fingers.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

_"Down to Sleep"_

November woods are bare and still, November days are clear and bright, Each noon burns up the morning's chill, The morning's snow is gone by night, Each day my steps grow slow, grow light, As through the woods I reverent creep, Watching all things "lie down to sleep."

I never knew before what beds, Fragrant to smell and soft to touch, The forest sifts and shapes and spreads.

I never knew before, how much Of human sound there is, in such Low tones as through the forest sweep, When all wild things "lie down to sleep."

Each day I find new coverlids Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight.

Sometimes the viewless mother bids Her ferns kneel down full in my sight, I hear their chorus of "good night,"

And half I smile and half I weep, Listening while they "lie down to sleep."

November woods are bare and still, November days are bright and good, Life's noon burns up life's morning chill, Life's night rests feet that long have stood, Some warm, soft bed in field or wood The mother will not fail to keep Where we can "lay us down to sleep."

H. H.

_Winter_

Lastly came Winter cloathed all in frize, Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill; Whilst on his h.o.a.ry beard his breath did freeze, And the dull drops that from his purple bill As from a limbeck did adown distill; In his right hand a tipped staff he held With which his feeble steps he stayed still, For he was faint with cold and weak with eld, That scarce his loosed limbs he able was to weld.

EDMUND SPENSER.

_When Icicles Hang by the Wall_

When icicles hang by the wall, And d.i.c.k the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whit!

To-who!--a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whit!

To-who!--a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_From "Love's Labor's Lost."_

_A Winter Morning_

There was never a leaf on bush or tree, The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; The river was dumb and could not speak, For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun; A single crow on the tree-top bleak From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun; Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, As if her veins were sapless and old, And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

_From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."_

_The Snow Storm_

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.

The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come see the north-wind's masonry.

Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.

Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate, A tapering turret overtops the work: And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

_Old Winter_

Old Winter sad, in snow yclad, Is making a doleful din; But let him howl till he crack his jowl, We will not let him in.

Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift His h.o.a.ry, hagged form, And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand Outstretching to the storm.

And let his weird and sleety beard Stream loose upon the blast, And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime From his bald head falling fast.

Let his baleful breath shed blight and death On herb and flower and tree; And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds Bind fast, but what care we?

Let him push at the door,--in the chimney roar, And rattle the window pane; Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye, But he shall not entrance gain.

Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth, On our roof-tiles, till he tire; But we care not a whit, as we jovial sit Before our blazing fire.

Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring; Come, push the can about;-- From our snug fire-side this Christmas-tide We'll keep old Winter out.

THOMAS NOEL.

_Midwinter_

The speckled sky is dim with snow, The light flakes falter and fall slow; Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, Silently drops a silvery veil; And all the valley is shut in By flickering curtains gray and thin.

But cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree; The snow sails round him as he sings, White as the down of angels' wings.

I watch the slow flakes as they fall On bank and brier and broken wall; Over the orchard, waste and brown, All noiselessly they settle down, Tipping the apple-boughs, and each Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

On turf and curb and bower-roof The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof; It paves with pearl the garden-walk; And lovingly round tattered stalk And shivering stem its magic weaves A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

The hooded beehive small and low, Stands like a maiden in the snow; And the old door-slab is half hid Under an alabaster lid.

All day it snows: the sheeted post Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; All day the blasted oak has stood A m.u.f.fled wizard of the wood; Garland and airy cap adorn The sumach and the wayside thorn, And cl.u.s.tering spangles lodge and shine In the dark tresses of the pine.

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; In surplice white the cedar stands, And blesses him with priestly hands.

Still cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree: But in my inmost ear is heard The music of a holier bird; And heavenly thoughts as soft and white As snow-flakes on my soul alight, Clothing with love my lonely heart, Healing with peace each bruised part, Till all my being seems to be Transfigured by their purity.