Poems (Helen Jenkins)/The Forest in Winter
THE FOREST IN WINTER.
I will visit the depths of the woodland wild,The dim old forest, sombre aisled:In the North-wind's chariot I will goOut in the realm of the beautiful snow, The wonderful snow.
I will look for the dear little chickadees,And the sparrows flitting among the trees,Singing their songs so cheery and sweet,Or hopping about on the frozen sleet With bare brown feet.
The frost and rain have a miracle wrought,More beautiful far than our happiest thought:Covered with gems are the branches brown,And myriad diamonds are flashing down From each jeweled crown.
O, what can compare with this silvan scene?Can aught be more lovely? Not here, I ween.Even the beauties of summer-time seemScarcely to rival the glint and the gleam Of this wonderland dream.
Far up on a branch of a tree-top high,A sentinel lone, with a vigilant eye,Is perched aloft on a gnarled old oak,—A raven black, with ominous croak And dolorous look.
The rabbits have borrowed an ermine cloak.The squirrels come out to laugh and mockTo chatter and scold at the North-wind's wrath,Because the gay leaves were all frozen to death By his icy breath.
Each withered shrub and fern, low-bowed,Is muffled close in a ghostly shroud.Out of their priestly cowls they peer,And say, with a quizzical, comical leer, "Ah! why are you here?"
Jubilant, joyous, each tall evergreenIs decked and bedight in a dazzling sheen.They nod, and beckon with hands reaching out,Tossing their beautiful arms about With a gleesome shout.
A whisper comes from the drooping larch;A sad, sweet requiem chants the birch;The willows' lithe branches are bending low,Their finger-tips touching the frosty snow As they sway to and fro.
The beeches shiver and quiver with pain,And rattle their crystal armor again,Clinging tightly to each tattered shredOf their rustling garments faded and dead, With pitiful dread.
Each tree has its own sweet minstrelsy,—A loud or soft-toned melody.Methinks, as I listen, I plainly hear,From some lonely tree-top, a cry of fear, Or a falling tear.
The sadest, the deepest emotion I feelOver my spirit at eventide steal,When hushed is the music of every bird,And scarcely a bough by the wind is stirred, Or a sound is heard.
Grand and sublime is the solitudeOf the evening hours in the silent wood.I stop to listen with bated breath—The hush and quiet a mystery hath Like the stillness of death.
The moonlight falls on the trackless snow,And shadowy spectres come and go.God's presence is here—a refuge, a tower!As never before, in this silent hour I feel His power.