ORIGINAL POETRY.

Temuka Leader, Volume 2, Issue 157, 25 June 1879, Page 2

ORIGINAL POETRY.

THE SNOW STOEM. [These lines were composed by a young surveyor while camping out at Buenos Ayres, Otago.] The evening was chill, and the fast rising gale Did make the old trees for to tremble and wail At the thought of the oncoming squall ; Then dread was the silence, the breeze it was hushed, And down came a shower of lily white dust, And it cast a dim shade o'er all. Bub still on it came, and then came larger flakes, They looked all as tempting as sweet sugar cakes, . As they daintily rode through the air— And as nearing the ground they each one alighted, They sat themselves down like poor travellers benighted, Who to move in the darkness don't dare. And then did each Fairy with kindness his brother, Without thought of self, with much gentleness cover, As aweary he lay down to rest. But soon down there floated, on the warm wing of love, Another who saw it, and lay down above, And entirely covered his breast. And who now, methought, and who now can tell, As rapidly downwards the soft snowflakes fell, How long this dread storm yet may last; For the ground it is white, yet the air is intense, With a crowd of their incoming numbers immense, Which are still gliding downwards right fast. And still they are coming, still whiter the ground, And methought as I listened that I heard the sound Of the snowflakes so gently falling; But it filled me with fear, and it filled me with awe, As I looked round about me and everywhere saw A whiteness so dread and appalling. For white was the air and white was the sky. And I turned with a thrill as I heard the wind sigh, And saw white weTe the trees of the wood ; A huge spectre beside me, with gaunt arms outspread, With body white draped and a face like the dead, Made me shiver and shake as I stood. But I rushed in at once, lest fear should me freeze, Since snow had been making such spectres of trees ; And as sitting down thoughtful I leant, I pitied the traveller who should be snow's guest, And I pitied the poor bird who'd not reached her nest, But felt proud of my calico tent.