Did life in its springtime to her seem so sad, That living was sorrow? Ah, mayhap she had Crushed hopes and affections too heavy to bear, So she seeks dissolution in crazy despair. To live would need courage, to die would end all, So she leaps in the dark, e’er her Maker doth call. “Found Drowned” is the verdict too sad to believe, No kindred to sorrow, no loved ones to grieve, Doomed to desertion, both living and dead, No mourners to follow to the place she is laid; By strangers she’s buried, unwept and unknown, Thus ends a brief life, misery marked for its own.
As gloom gathers round, the dark days of winter, And the season of shadows, beclouds the bright skies, The heart becomes tinged with pensive emotions As Nature, in mourning, thus withers and dies.
We recall the sweet hours of retrospect pleasure, Of green haunts of happiness--lately our own-- Of gay, joyous scenes, and sweet summer fancies, Engendered by beauty and brightness alone.
Adieu to the charms of summer and autumn, That each, in their turn, fill life with delight; We love Nature, budding or blooming or ripened, We cherish its beauties--regretting their flight.
But the dark days of winter must come to the seasons, That change, in their rounds, from the bright to the drear; And, though we deplore their cold dullness and darkness, We can’t hope for springtime all thro’ the year.
These dull, dreary days, these clouds, gray and heavy, That hang, like a pall, over Nature’s fair face, But serve to enhance each gleam of gold sunshine, When new-waking Nature its beauties retrace.
The slush, the slush, the terrible slush, That streams from each pore of the earth with a gush; Impeding the travel, making walking a woe; All on account of the “Beautiful Snow.”
From each roof and tree, great drippings we see, Making gutters and crossings quite up to the knee; The sidewalks so icy, the pavements a show; All on account of the “Beautiful Snow.”
From the time that we leave the sill of the door, “Eaves-droppings,” in torrents, all over us pour-- Such splashing above, such slushing below; All on account of the “Beautiful Snow.”
Then we slip and we slide, as we try to proceed; Tottering and trembling, like a wind-waving reed. This icy mud-mixture makes traveling so slow; All on account of the “Beautiful Snow.”