Posted by: Sherry Goodwin | June 2, 2009

THE SONG OF A SUMMER STREAM.

     A FEW months ago
          I was singing through the snow,
Though the dead brown boughs gave no hope
        of summer shoots,
     And my persevering fall
     Seemed to be no use at all,
For the hard, hard frost would not let me reach
          the roots.

     Then the mists hung chill
     All along the wooded hill,
And the cold sad fog through my lonely dingles
        crept;
     I was glad I had no power
     To awake one tender flower
To a sure swift doom!  I would rather that it slept.

     Still I sang all alone
     In the sweet old summer tone,
For the strong white ice could not hush me
        for a day;
     Though no other voice was heard
     But the bitter breeze that whirred
Past the gaunt, grey trunks on its wild and
        angry way.

     So the dim days sped,
     While everything seemed dead,
And my own poor flow seemed the only living
        sign;
     And the keen stars shone
     When the freezing night came on,
From the far, far heights, all so cold and
        crystalline.

     A few months ago
     I was singing through the snow!
But now the blessed sunshine is filling all the
        land,
     And the memories are lost
     Of the winter fog and frost,
In the presence of the summer with her full and
        glowing hand.

                                                         waterfall in brook
     Now the woodlark comes to drink
     At my cool and pearly brink,
And the ladyfern is bending to kiss my rainbow
        foam;
     And the wild rose buds entwine
     With the dark-leaved bramble-fine,
And the centuried oak is green around the
        bright-eyed suirrel’s home.

     O the full and glad content
     That my little song is blent
With the all-melodious mingling of the cho-
        risters around!
     I no longer sing alone
     Through a chill surrounding moan,
For the very air is trembling with its wealth of
        summer sound.

     Though the hope seemed long deferred,
     Ere the south wind’s whisper heard
Gave a promise of the passing of the weary
        winter days,
     Yet the blessing was secure,
     For the summer time was sure
When the lonely songs are gathered in the
     mighty choir of praise.
                         February 18th, 1879.

Frances Ridley Havergal from UNDER HIS SHADOW

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