How changed the scene from that I lately sang,
⁠Of summer in the woods!
When all the leafy coverts rang,
⁠Down to the deepest solitudes,
With sweet bird-harmonies of song
From the wild feathered throng.
But now the furious wind's sonorous bass
Sounds through the naked trees:
Music spreads forth her wing,
And in the air float melodies, which chase
Each other as they please,
And gambol as in ecstasies;
Each tree a harp, and every branch a string,
Touched by a hand unseen, now low, now high,
⁠Outringing rapturous refrains,
And with great heaven's own minstrelsy
⁠Flooding the hills and plains.
Some tremulous leaves still hang upon the boughs,
⁠Quivering 'twixt life and death,
And yonder willow sways and sighs and bows,
⁠Before the frost hath breathed her wintry breath,
And the last leaf falls flickering to its tomb, —
Relic of brightness and of bloom.
Walk through the wood, thrilled to the inmost core
⁠By the wild concert of celestial sounds
In God's cathedral. Hear the wondrous roar
⁠Of nature's organ, echoing in rounds
From the high headland to the ocean shore.
⁠Magnificently grand!
This is God's minster-choir,
⁠By the blue heavens o'erspanned;
And now the song bursts forth from harp and lyre,
⁠A hallelujah chorus loud,
A hurricane of praise which sweeps
⁠Triumphantly from cloud to cloud,
⁠As though the very heavens were bowed,
And then in silence sleeps.
Sweet silence! like the cadence of a psalm:
The storm was sudden, and the hallowing calm
⁠As sudden as the storm;
Not a breath stirs, and zephyr soft as balm
⁠Brings peace in its most lovely form.
Only the whispering rill I hear,
⁠With its mild vesper hymn the trees among,
And, beautifully clear.
⁠The robin's plaintive song.

Oh! thou, whose heart is scarred and worn,
⁠Whom plans bewilder, cares oppress, —
By disappointment overborne,
⁠Or overjoyed at earth's success, —
The fir woods call to thee to come,
Their lonely depths are never dumb.

For there is never day so still,
⁠So lulled to sleep, but some light breeze,
Unnoticed else, doth faintly fill
⁠The topmost foliage of the trees,
And those tall, tapering crests are stirred,
And the eternal whisper heard.

And there is never day so rude,
⁠So vexed with blasts that howl and drive,
But in this dark and silent wood
⁠The winds are hushed, or only give —
Howe'er the tree-tops rock and swing —
Depth to their solemn murmuring.

Judge not! 'Tis past thy ken;
⁠Strangely the web of destiny is ordered;
In highest-natured men
⁠The loftiest wit with depths of madness bordered!

Judge not! The taper's light
⁠Is too small measure for volcanoes' burning;
This constant, feebly-bright, —
⁠That sudden, with wild flame, all barriers spurning.

Judge not! Beyond the grave
⁠We shall know better the immense, great trial;
This man submits, a slave;
⁠The other fights, and dies, in fierce denial.

But He who views the strife,
⁠Calm from without, more wise than those within it,
Counts the long "Yes" of life,
⁠Not the one "No," the single faithless minute.

Can this be spring? These tearful lights that break
⁠Across wet uplands in the windy dawn
Are paler than the primroses, that make
⁠Dim glories on the banks of field and lawn;
Wild blasts are sweeping o'er the garden beds,
⁠Wild clouds are drifting through the dull, grey skies,
And early flowers, rain-beaten, hang their heads;
⁠Can it be spring that wears this stormy guise?

Can this be autumn? Freshly green and fair
⁠The meadows glisten in the morning rays,
Touches of brown and crimson, here and there,
⁠Are all that tell us that the year decays.
We would not have the old year young again;
⁠If this be death, we find him passing sweet;
Watching the soft hues change on hill and plain,
⁠We wait in peace the calm destroyer's feet.