The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

      It rains, and the wind is never weary;

      The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

      But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

          And the day is dark and dreary!

      My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;

      It rains, and the wind is never weary;

      My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,

      But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

          And the days are dark and dreary.

      Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

      Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

      Thy fate is the common fate of all,

      Into each life some rain must fall,

          Some days must be dark and dreary.

            When the warm sun, that brings

      Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,

      'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs

            The first flower of the plain.

            I love the season well,

      When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,

      Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell

            The coming-on of storms.

            From the earth's loosened mould

      The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;

      Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,

            The drooping tree revives.

            The softly-warbled song

      Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings

      Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along

            The forest openings.

            When the bright sunset fills

      The silver woods with light, the green slope throws

      Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,

            And wide the upland glows.

            And when the eve is born,

      In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,

      Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn,

            And twinkles many a star.

            Inverted in the tide,

      Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,

      And the fair trees look over, side by side,

            And see themselves below.

            Sweet April!—many a thought

      Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;

      Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,

            Life's golden fruit is shed.

      How beautiful is the rain!

      After the dust and heat,

      In the broad and fiery street,

      In the narrow lane,

      How beautiful is the rain!

      How it clatters along the roofs,

      Like the tramp of hoofs!

      How it gushes and struggles out

      From the throat of the overflowing spout!

      Across the window pane

      It pours and pours;

      And swift and wide,

      With a muddy tide,

      Like a river down the gutter roars

      The rain, the welcome rain!

      In the country, on every side,

      Where far and wide,

      Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,

      Stretches the plain,

      To the dry grass and the drier grain

      How welcome is the rain!

      A wind came up out of the sea,

      And said, "O mists, make room for me."

      It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on,

      Ye mariners, the night is gone."

      And hurried landward far away,

      Crying, "Awake! it is the day."

      It said unto the forest, "Shout!

      Hang all your leafy banners out!"

      It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,

      And said, "O bird, awake and sing."

      And o'er the farms, "O Chanticleer,

      Your clarion blow; the day is near."

      It whispered to the fields of corn,

      "Bow down, and hail the coming morn."

      It shouted through the belfry tower,

      "Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour."

      It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,

      And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie."

      The day is ending,

      The night is descending;

      The marsh is frozen,

        The river dead.

      Through clouds like ashes

      The red sun flashes

      On village windows

        That glimmer red.

      The snow recommences;

      The buried fences

      Mark no longer

        The road o'er the plain;

      While through the meadows,

      Like fearful shadows,

      Slowly passes

        A funeral train.

      The bell is pealing,

      And every feeling

      Within me responds

        To the dismal knell;

      Shadows are trailing,

      My heart is bewailing

      And tolling within

        Like a funeral bell.

      Forth upon the Gitche Gumee,

      On the shining Big-Sea-Water,

      With