By William B. Tappan
Winter! there are among the race of men,
Strangers to thought who slander thee;
Thy frowns appal, thy smiles escape their ken,
Far lovelier the garb thou wear’st to me.
I love thy rocking storms to hear;
Thy blasts, that bid the aged mountains nod,
Thy winds are music to mine ear,
To me their murmuring is the voice of God.
Thou of the kindly charities!
‘Tis thine to thaw man’s heart–the frigid soul,
Sterner than frost, is melted, nor denies
Its aid to bid the tempest-tossed be whole.
Yea mother! thou art not austere;
Though frozen be thy aspect, bliss is thine
Unknown to fairer May. Upon thy shrine
Ever is seen the grateful orphan’s tear.
Parent of treasures, thou!
Should I not love thee? O, can aught compare
With thy dear fireside joys?–the tranquil brow,
The wife’s warm smile and children’s kiss are there.