Oh, Earth, where is the mantle of pleasant emerald dye
That robed thee in sweet summer-time, and gladdened heart and eye,
Adorned with blooming roses, graceful ferns and blossoms sweet,
And bright green moss like velvet that lay soft beneath our feet?
What! am I not as lovely in my garb of spotless white?
Was young bride in her beauty ever clothed in robe as bright?
Or, if you seek for tinting warm, at morn and evening hour,
Youll find me bathed in blushes bright as those of summer flower.
But, Earth, I miss the verdure of thy woods and forests old,
The waving of their foliage, casting shadows oer the wold,
The golden sunbeams peering mid the green leaves here and there,
And I sigh to see the branches so cheerless and so bare.
But oft theyre clothed in ermine to the sight and touch more fair
Than the costly robing monarchs for regal garments wear,
Whilst at times the glittring branches with jewels are ablaze,
The Frost Kings pearls and diamonds flashing back the lights clear rays.
Well, I grieve to see thy rivers, thy lakes and mountain streams,
That in summer rippled gaily beneath the suns glad beams,
As light barks glided swiftly oer their azure waves at will,
Held now in icy barriers that guard them cold and still.
But, see their glassy bosom, what scene could be more bright?
How gaily oer the surface darts the skater, strong and light;
And happy, cheerful voices ring out from shore to shore,
And forms are clearly mirrored on that dazzling crystal floor.
Ah, Earth, I cannot listen to thy soft, persuasive voice,
Though the pleasures thou canst offer may make other hearts rejoice,
For with love and fond regret I recall each cloudless day,
Spent with friends in sunny rambleswhen the whole world seemed at play.
Why, the time for pleasant converse is the winters stormy night,
Its long and quiet evenings, with fire and tapers bright,
The soothing strains of music, laughter, jest and happy song,
Yes! the dearest of all pleasures to the winter-time belong.
I yield! Oh, Earth, thou hast thy charms, I grant it freely now,
In winters sterner hours, as when the spring-buds deck thy brow,
So, a truce to idle grieving oer summer beauties fled,
Our northern winters well accept with grateful hearts instead.
