A Hearth Song Poem by Francis Joseph Sherman

One more log on the fire!
For we be agèd men
(Whom nothing once could tire—
But it was Summer then!)
With only one desire—


That Spring were born again.

Now Earth the deep snows cover,
That—long ago, alas!—
Was garmented with clover
And yellow weeds and grass;


The wasted days are over
We deemed could never pass.

Yet why should we go weeping
Because that sudden thief,
The snow, hath in its keeping


Each little bud and leaf?—
I think the grasses, sleeping,
Laugh softly at our grief!

For once of old we waited,
Praying that Spring might come


And Earth be consecrated;
(Had she discovered some
New resting-place, created
For her eternal home?)

But in our slumber-hours


Softly she came to us,
With gentle winds and showers,
Wayward and tyrannous;
With promises of flowers
Golden and glorious.


So like each little brother
We have beneath the snow,
Unto the mighty Mother.
A-sleeping let us go—
Till we—as they—another


Glad resurrection know!