Winter Hues Recalled.

Life is not all for effort: there are hours,     When fancy breaks from the exacting will,     And rebel thought takes schoolboy's holiday,     Rejoicing in its idle strength. 'Tis then,     And only at such moments, that we know     The treasure of hours gone - scenes once beheld,     Sweet voices and words bright and beautiful,     Impetuous deeds that woke the God within us,     The loveliness of forms and thoughts and colors,     A moment marked and then as soon forgotten.     These things are ever near us, laid away,     Hidden and waiting the appropriate times,     In the quiet garner-house of memory.     There in the silent unaccounted depth,     Beneath the heated strainage and the rush     That teem the noisy surface of the hours,     All things that ever touched us are stored up,     Growing more mellow like sealed wine with age;     We thought them dead, and they are but asleep.     In moments when the heart is most at rest     And least expectant, from the luminous doors,     And sacred dwelling place of things unfeared,     They issue forth, and we who never knew     Till then how potent and how real they were,     Take them, and wonder, and so bless the hour.     Such gifts are sweetest when unsought. To me,     As I was loitering lately in my dreams,     Passing from one remembrance to another,     Like him who reads upon an outstretched map,     Content and idly happy, these rose up,     Out of that magic well-stored picture house,     No dream, rather a thing most keenly real,     The memory of a moment, when with feet,     Arrested and spell bound, and captured eyes,     Made wide with joy and wonder, I beheld     The spaces of a white and wintery land     Swept with the fire of sunset, all its width     Vale, forest, town, and misty eminence,     A miracle of color and of beauty.     I had walked out, as I remember now,     With covered ears, for the bright air was keen,     To southward up the gleaming snow-packed fields,     With the snowshoer's long rejoicing stride,     Marching at ease. It was a radiant day     In February, the month of the great struggle     'Twixt sun and frost, when with advancing spears,     The glittering golden vanguard of the spring     Holds the broad winter's yet unbroken rear     In long-closed wavering contest. Thin pale threads     Like streaks of ash across the far off blue     Were drawn, nor seemed to move. A brooding silence     Kept all the land, a stillness as of sleep;     But in the east the grey and motionless woods,     Watching the great sun's fiery slow decline,     Grew deep with gold. To westward all was silver.     An hour had passed above me; I had reached     The loftiest level of the snow-piled fields,     Clear eyed, but unobservant, noting not,     That all the plain beneath me and the hills     Took on a change of color splendid, gradual,     Leaving no spot the same; nor that the sun     Now like a fiery torrent overflamed     The great line of the west. Ere yet I turned     With long stride homeward, being heated     With the loose swinging motion, weary too,     Nor uninclined to rest, a buried fence,     Whose topmost log just shouldered from the snow,     Made me a seat, and thence with heated cheeks,     Grazed by the northwind's edge of stinging ice,     I looked far out upon the snow-bound waste,     The lifting hills and intersecting forests,     The scarce marked courses of the buried streams,     And as I looked lost memory of the frost,     Transfixed with wonder, overborne with joy.     I saw them in their silence and their beauty,     Swept by the sunset's rapid hand of fire,     Sudden, mysterious, every moment deepening     To some new majesty of rose or flame.     The whole broad west was like a molten sea     Of crimson. In the north the light-lined hills     Were veiled far off as with a mist of rose     Wondrous and soft. Along the darkening east     The gold of all the forests slowly changed     To purple. In the valley far before me,     Low sunk in sapphire shadows, from its hills,     Softer and lovelier than an opening flower,     Uprose a city with its sun-touched towers,     A bunch of amethysts.     Like one spell-bound     Caught in the presence of some god, I stood,     Nor felt the keen wind and the deadly air,     But watched the sun go down, and watched the gold     Fade from the town and the withdrawing hills,     Their westward shapes athwart the dusky red     Freeze into sapphire, saw the arc of rose     Rise ever higher in the violet east,     Above the frore front of the uprearing night     Remorsefully soft and sweet. Then I awoke     As from a dream, and from my shoulders shook     The warning chill, till then unfelt, unfeared.