Eastern times. [volume] (Bath, Me.) 1846-1857, 1852-02-12
MISCELLANY N Y.
Winter.

The following sketch from Mitchell's Dream
Life, has all the qualities of beautiful poem,
except uniformity of rythm;
"Slowly, thickly, fastly, fall the snow
flakes, like the seasons upon the life Of man.
At the first, they lose themselves in the brown
mat of herbage, or gently melt as they fall upon
the broad stepping-stone at the door. But
hour after hour passes, the feathery flakes
stretching their white cloak plainly on the
meadow, and chilling the doorstep with their
multitude, cover it with mat of pearl.
The dried grass-tips pierce the mantle of
white, like so many serried spears; but as the
storm goes softly on, they sink one by one to
their snowy tomb; and presently show nothing
OF all their army, save one or two struggling
banners of blackened and shrunken daisies.
Across the wide meadow that stretches from
my window, can see nothing of those hills
which were so green in summer between me
and them, lie only the soft, slow moving mass
es, filling the air with whiteness. catch only
glimpse of one gaunt, and bare armed oak,
looming through the feathery multitude, like
tall ships spars breaking through the fog.
The roof of the barn is covered and the
caves show dark stains of winter, that trickle
down the weather-beaten boards The pear
trees that wore such weight of greenness in the
leafy June, now stretch their bare arms to the
snowy blast, and carry upon each tiny bough
a narrow burden of winter.
The old dog marches stately through the
strange covering of earth, ard seems to ponder
on the welcome he will show-and shakes from
his long ears, and with vain snap at float
ing feather, he stalks again to his dry covert,
in the shed. The lambs that belonged to the
meadow flock, with their feeding ground all
covered, seem to wonder at their losses; but
take courage from the quiet air of the veteran
sheep, and gambol after them, as they move Sc
dately towards the shelter Of the barn.
The cat, driven from the kitchen door, beats
a coy retreat, with long reaches Of her feet,
upon the yielding surface. The matronly hens
saunter out at little lifting of the storm and
eve curiously, with heads half turned, their
sinking steps; and then fall back with qnet
cuck of satisfaction, TO the wholesome gravel
by the stable door.
b. and by, the snow fakes pile more lcis-
urely; they grow large and scattered and come
more slowly than before. The hills that were
brown, heave into sight-great, rounded bill
lows of white. The gray woods look shrunk-
en- to half their height. and stand waving in
the storm The wind freshens and scatters
the light fakes that crown the burden of snow ;
and as the day droops, clear, bright sky of
steel color, cleaves the land and clouds, and
sends down chilling wind to bank the walls,
and to freeze the storm. The moon rises full
and round, and plays with joyful chill, over
the glistening raiment of the land.
pile my fire with the clean cleft hickery !;
and musing over some sweet story Of the olden
time, wander into rich realm of thought;
until my eyes grow dim, and dreaming of bat-
tie, and of prince, l fall to sleep in my old
farm chamber.
At morning, find my dreams are written
on the window, in crystals of fairy shape
The cattle, ono by one, with ears frost tipped,
and With frosted noses, wend their way to the