Feathery frost on the window-pane, Who placed you there? "I cannot explain," Each little feather at once replied; "But this I know, I'm the children's pride, As they think I fell from an angel's wing, And coming to earth must rich blessings bring. "I once formed part of a lovely bay; The sun shone out, and I turned to spray, And rose aloft on the ambient air, To the regions high where all is rare; Then I mingled with my old friends again, Who were my neighbors in the haunts of men. "On the blustering wind, I rode along, Sometimes hard tossed by the tempest strong, And then at rest, as when in the bay, Though much enlarged, the wise savants say; Though I cannot tell you how long my sleep, With a chill I woke and began to weep. "And my ample form much smaller grew, By the cold compressed to a drop of dew; Then down I fell, swift as bounding deer, And knew no more till I fell right here; But how I became so like a feather Is problem I can unravel never. "But, oh, how the sun begins to burn! I think I must to the clouds return. Farewell, my boy! but you must not fret; We meet again, as we now have met, If not as a feather, perhaps a tree, Or whatever the Wise One may make of me." "WILT THOU HARASS A DRIVEN LEAF?" O harass not a driven leaf, Nor stubble dry in wrath pursue; A life so brief load not with grief, Nor with thine arrow pierce me through. The fragile leaf, by tempest tost, Is scarcely worth a passing thought; The brook is crossed, and then is lost; There let it lie, a thing of naught. The stubble dry ne'er grows again; To golden grain it gave its sap. It died, and then 'twas left by men To rot betimes, or some mishap. Am I not like the stubble dry And fragile leaf by tempest strewed? Must I not die, then tell me why A thing so frail is thus pursued? A voice replies: "Thy life is frail, Much like the leaf and stubble dry; Thy strength must fail, and as the gale Bears them away, so must thou die; "But live again, in bliss, or pain; For death to man does not end all; Life is not vain, if thou but gain A _home in heaven_, when I shall call! "To fit thy soul for endless rest, I harass now the driven leaf, But though sore pressed and grief distressed, The life of sorrow will be brief. "And when released from suffering clay, Thy blood-bought spirit shall arise To endless day. Then thou shalt say, _The ways of God are good and wise._" A GEM The gem is not this ode itself; Hardly can it aspire so high. Earth has its gems; but all its wealth, Increased by thousands, cannot buy Man's _soul_, the gem of priceless worth, Made in God's image at its birth; Ordained to live for evermore; Redeemed by blood from sin and hell; Transformed by grace, God's love to tell; And at His feet its homage pour. Lordly are its endowments, too; Superb its destiny, if true; Only below, said one who knew, Unfallen angels round God's throne. Lord, may this gem be Thine alone. THE CLOUDS