Grandpere.

Old Grandpere gat in the corner,     With his grandchild on his knee,     Looking up at his wrinkled visage,     For his winters were ninety-three.     Fair Eleanor's locks were flaxen,     The old man's once were gray,     But now, they were white as the snow-drift     That lay on the bleak highway.     Her summers rolled on as golden     As waves over sunny seas;     But Grandpere could perceive no summers,     The winters alone were his.     He folded his arms around her,     Like Winter embracing Spring;     And the angels looked down from heaven,     And smiled on their slumbering.     But soon the angelic faces     Were filled with seraphic light,     As they gazed on a beauteous spirit     Passing up through the frosty night:     Till it stood serene before them,     A youth most divinely fair;     And they saw that the new-born angel     Was the spirit of old Grandpere.