"Christmas Out of Doors"
Harper's Weekly, Dec. 25, 1858. Click on image for a larger view.
Previous William Thomas Sherman Info Page postings, quotes, observations, etc.
["Chuck Berry Run Rudolph Run"]
["Jingle bells with Bing Crosby and the andrew sisters"]
The Good That Is Always [resumed from earlier]
Yonder where the deer step,
An eagle skims o’er tall trees;
Of forest crests and wooded hills;
Ascending to a height
Only to fall and find
Rest in each other’s laps;
In slumber deep like
A black mountain bear
Taking an Autumn's nap:
He sleeps where silence reigns;
Only to wake and rise again.
Yet while the pines and sequoia
Are still a coniferous green,
Oaks, elms, and others seen
Are shedding leaves
Themselves between;
Orange, brown, red, and gold,
Just as they did in times of old.
But though too at harvest we
Are now more inclined
On our own couches to recline;
With the year more near
To being run,
There is yet for many still
Much work to be done.
Even among the smallest now,
Dame Nature herself
Displays her busy fancies;
As in the webs
Of the golden spiders
In all their fine intricacy.
Erecting as much
For pride and for shew,
Arachne lays on
The finishing touch
To gossamer
Glistening with dew.
Even wasps and bees
Will collect round a bush’s buds
Gathering pollen that remains;
While the thrifty emmet
Refuses losing time
To bring home labor’s gains.
While we can then, while we may,
Be our own hearts grateful for the day.
And by getting something done,
Be as votaries who plant an offering.
Not unoften are there places
Deserted and forlorn
Not far from where we dwell.
And did we know them,
What pity might we feel
Where life lives but is unwell.
Once after a rude storm had passed,
When the sky looked dark,
Somber and downcast,
I spied a large, beautiful leaf
Left in the road to die.
And could it have spoke,
Might it too have asked “Why?”
There are many such like that
For whom years of hoping
Have brought no relief.
And yet strange to think
How easily might
Have been healed such grief…
But for mysterious chance,
But for odd circumstance.
Was he so blessed
To compensate deformity?
Or had he been deformed
Because he’d been too blessed?
Was it necessary that they die
Because they were so loved?
Or are they now so loved
Because their death
Made us cry?
Oh, for an end to discord
That destroys!
Oh, for an end to fear
That ever mars our joys!
For if not by fire
We are burnt to clay,
Then most surely ice
Will close our days.
Oh, for a humble rock to be!
That we might be unconscious
For all futurity.
To not hurt,
To not be hurt,
To always be at peace,
Will not God at last
Make sharp suffering cease?
Though they dupe our friends
Us to betray,
Life’s true trespassers
Are sinister strangers
Sent from far away.
Yet though they us
Into prisoners make,
The chains of slavery
Will we ever break.
For all these trying cares
All along were really theirs.
And the sunshine of
Their false hope
Forever we forswear.
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[To be continued...]
