When men were all asleep the snow came flying, In large white flakes falling on the city brown, Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town.
The hill pines were sighing,
O'ercast and chill was the day;
A mist in the valley lying
Blotted the pleasant May.
The lonely season in lonely lands, when fled Are half the birds, and mists lie low, and the sun Is rarely seen, nor strayeth far from his bed; The short days pass unwelcomed one by one.
Poetry's magic lies in the imagery which satifies even without interpretation..it is accepted as easily as it was created.
Nature hav no music; nor would ther be for theeany better melody in the April woods at dawnthan what an old stone-deaf labourer, lying awakeo'night in his comfortless attic, might perchancebe aware of, when the rats run amok in his thatch?
Our stability is but balance, and conduct lies In masterful administration of the unforseen.
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