Poetry Archives

Once again my songs I sing thee,
  Now the spell is broken;
Brothers, yet again I bring thee
  Songs of love the token.
Of my joy and of my sorrow
  Gladly, sadly bringing;—
Summer not a song would borrow—
  Winter sets me singing.

O when life turns sad and lonely,
  When our joys are dead;
When are heard the ravens only
  In the trees o’erhead;
When the stormwind on the bowers
  Wreaks its wicked will,
When the frost paints lying flowers,
  How should I be still?

When the clouds are low descending,
  And the sun is drowned;
When the winter knows no ending,
  And the cold is crowned;
When with evil gloom oppressed
  Lie the ruins bare;
When a sigh escapes the breast,
  Takes us unaware;

When the snow-wrapped mountain dreams
  Of its summer gladness,
When the wood is stripped and seems
  Full of care and sadness;
When the songs are growing still
  As in Death’s repose,
And the heart is growing chill,
  And the eyelids close;

Then, O then I can but sing
  For I dream her coming—
May, sweet May! I see her bring
  Buds and wild-bee humming!
Through the silence heart-appalling,
  As I stand and listen,
I can hear her song-birds calling,
  See her green leaves glisten!

Thus again my songs I sing thee,
  Now the spell is broken;
Brothers, yet again I bring thee
  Of my love the token.
Of my joy and of my sorrow
  Gladly, sadly bringing,—
Summer not a song would borrow!—
Winter sets me singing.