O gentle little comer In wintry days, Far more than songs of summer I love thy lays. They come when flowers are sweetest, And leaves are green; But thou thy song repeatest In sterner scene. II. In joyous days are many The friends we find; In dark ones scarcely any, To soothe the mind. But friends in hours of sorrow Far more we prize Than those that go to-morrow If storms arise. THE CLOUDS ARE BLUSHING. The clouds are blushing, the sun is gone, He has been kissing them, every one, Except the shy ones, that kept away, And tearfully watched his parting ray; But they love him no less For their bashfulness; The truest of lovers are not the most gay. The sun is gone, and the blushing clouds Are growing dimmer, as Night enshrouds Sky, sea and land in her sombre pall-- The sexton at old Earth’s funeral, When her race is run, And her work is done, And her children are weaned from her, one and all. The Man of the Moon has lit his lamp, And is now commencing his airy tramp, To see how the stars, those merry elves That wink as he passes, behave themselves. With steady pace He is running his race, Holding his lamp with a dignified grace. The sun is rising behind the hill, And I am waiting and watching still-- Waiting and watching, as night goes by, What queer little scenes take place in the sky, When the silence is deep And men are asleep, And none are awake but the stars and I! MAY, 1859. UNSPOKEN. .... Quis prodere tanta relatu .... possit? --_Claudian._ There is a voice that never stirs the lips,-- Felt, but not heard; that vibrates through the soul,-- A solemn music; but no human speech Can give that music to the ambient air. The noblest poem poet ever wrote; The brightest picture artist ever drew; The loftiest music lyrist ever sung; The gentlest accents woman ever spoke,-- Are paraphrases of a felt original, That lip, or pen, or pencil, cannot show Unto the seeing eye or listening ear. The thoughts we utter are but half themselves. The poet knows this well. The artist knows His hands bear not the burden of his thoughts Upon the canvas. The musician knows His soul must ever perish on his lips. Even the eye,--“the window of the soul,”-- Though it may shed a light a little way, Gives but a glimpse of that which burns within.