_For the Table Book._
The banks are partly green; hedges and trees
Are black and shrouded, and the keen wind roars,
Like dismal music wand’ring over seas,
And wailing to the agitated shores.
The fields are dotted with manure--the sheep
In unshorn wool, streak’d with the shepherd’s red,
Their undivided peace and friendship keep,
Shaking their bells, like children to their bed.
The roads are white and miry--waters run
With violence through their tracks--and sheds, that flowers
In summer graced, are open to the sun,
Which shines in noonday’s horizontal hours.
Frost claims the night; and morning, like a bride,
Forth from her chamber glides; mist spreads her vest;
The sunbeams ride the clouds till eventide,
And the wind rolls them to ethereal rest.
Sleet, shine, cold, fog, in portions fill the time;
Like hope, the prospect cheers; like breath it fades;
Life grows in seasons to returning prime,
And beauty rises from departing shades.
_January, 1827._