WINTER.

The golden sunshine has fled away, The clouds o'erhead hang heavy and gray, The world is woefully sad to-day; And I am thinking of you, dear, you. The cold clay hides from the rain and dew The tenderest heart that the world e'er knew. Why should I think of you when the rain Smiteth so sharply the window-pane, And the wild winds round the old house 'plain? You were so sweet and sunny and bright, Ever your presence brought life and light, And I recall you in storm and night. When snow-shrouds hang on the corpse-cold trees, When sharp frosts sting and the north winds freeze, What has your mem'ry to do with these? O fair lost love! O love that is dead! The pleasant days from my life are fled, The rosy morns and the sunsets red. The light has faded from out my life, Leaving the clouds and the stormy strife, And the keen sharp cold that cuts like a knife. The days and the months, how slow they glide, Gray-robed and cold-breathed and frozen-eyed! The summer died for me when you died. O world of woe and of want and pain! O heaven of clouds and storm and rain! When shall I find my summer again?