388 POEMS 
It calls thee living or it calls thee dying, 
Though beauty fade before the glare of truth. 
Thou wanderest onward ’neath the solemn morn- 
ing, 
It seems like midday ere the sun rides high, 
The soft mist fades, whose shadowy adorning 
Wrapt in a dreamy haze the earth and sky ; 
The Ocean lies before ! 
Oh thou art lost if thou discard the warning 
To make hot Day more fair than fairest dawn- 
ing, 
Till eve look back serenely on the morning 
When Youth stood trembling on the ocean- 
shore. 
THE FEBRUARY HUSH 
Snow o’er the darkening moorlands, — 
Flakes fill the quiet air ; 
Drifts in the forest hollows, 
And a soft mask everywhere. 
The nearest twig on the pine-tree 
Looks blue through the whitening sky, 
And the clinging beech-leaves rustle 
Though never a wind goes by. 
