30.12.2010, 15:56
THE STORM—A HARVEST MEMORY.
The specialties of that dark hour of grief
On my retentive heart have prest their seal ;
Yes ! I remember even the spider's wheel,
Which stretch'd and lighten'd on the gusty leaf
Of that wild August morn ! The blasts were driven
Across the new-mown fields, fitful and brief.
And toss'd the tresses of the barley-sheaf,
And rode the streaming willow into Heaven :
The features of the tempest, all and each,
I still recall, and shall thy ruthful gaze
Not be remember'd ? nor those winning ways
Which brought my soul within thy pity's reach ?
I keej) the natural impress of the hour,
And shall thy loving kindness have less power ?
The specialties of that dark hour of grief
On my retentive heart have prest their seal ;
Yes ! I remember even the spider's wheel,
Which stretch'd and lighten'd on the gusty leaf
Of that wild August morn ! The blasts were driven
Across the new-mown fields, fitful and brief.
And toss'd the tresses of the barley-sheaf,
And rode the streaming willow into Heaven :
The features of the tempest, all and each,
I still recall, and shall thy ruthful gaze
Not be remember'd ? nor those winning ways
Which brought my soul within thy pity's reach ?
I keej) the natural impress of the hour,
And shall thy loving kindness have less power ?