BRIGHT DAYS IN WINTER. By J. G. WHITTIER.

Bland as the morning’s breath of June, The southwest breezes play, And through its haze, the winter noon Seems warm as summer’s day. The snow-plumed Angel of the North Has dropped his icy spear; Again the mossy earth looks forth, Again the streams gush clear. The fox his hillside den forsakes; The muskrat leaves his nook; The blue-bird, in the meadow-brakes, Is singing with the brook. “Bear up, O Mother Nature!” cry Bird, breeze, and streamlet free; “Our winter voices prophesy Of summer days to thee.” So in these winters of the soul, By wintry blasts and drear O’erswept from Memory’s frozen pole, Will summer days appear. Reviving hope and faith, they show The soul its living powers, And how, beneath the winter’s snow, Lie germs of summer flowers. The Night is mother of the Day; The Winter of the Spring; And ever upon old decay The greenest mosses cling. Behind the cloud the starlight lurks; Through showers the sunbeams fall; For God, who loveth all his works, Has left his Hope with all.