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Sunny Days In Winter Post by :Writer Category :Poems Author :Denis Florence Maccarthy Date :October 2011 Read :1970

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Sunny Days In Winter

Summer is a glorious season
Warm, and bright, and pleasant;
But the Past is not a reason
To despise the Present.
So while health can climb the mountain,
And the log lights up the hall,
There are sunny days in Winter, after all!

Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us,
Maiden-like in charms;
Summer, too, with all her promise,
Perished in our arms.
But the memory of the vanished,
Whom our hearts recall,
Maketh sunny days in Winter, after all!

True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh,
All the best are dead;
But the wall-flower still perfumeth
Yonder garden-bed.
And the arbutus pearl-blossom'd
Hangs its coral ball--
There are sunny days in Winter, after all!

Summer trees are pretty,--very,
And love them well:
But this holly's glistening berry,
None of those excel.
While the fir can warm the landscape,
And the ivy clothes the wall,
There are sunny days in Winter, after all!

Sunny hours in every season
Wait the innocent--
Those who taste with love and reason
What their God hath sent.
Those who neither soar too highly,
Nor too lowly fall,
Feel the sunny days of Winter, after all!

Then, although our darling treasures
Vanish from the heart;
Then, although our once-loved pleasures
One by one depart;
Though the tomb looms in the distance,
And the mourning pall,
There is sunshine, and no Winter, after all!

(The end)
Denis Florence MacCarthy's poem: Sunny Days In Winter

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The Birth Of The Spring The Birth Of The Spring

The Birth Of The Spring
O Kathleen, my darling, I've dreamt such a dream,'Tis as hopeful and bright as the summer's first beam:I dreamt that the World, like yourself, darling dear,Had presented a son to the happy New Year!Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered awhile,But like yours was the joy, at her baby's first smile,When the tender nurse, Nature, quick hastened to flingHer sun-mantle round, as she fondled THE SPRING.O Kathleen, 'twas strange how the elements all,With their friendly regards, condescended to call:The rough rains of winter like summer-dews fell,And the North-wind said, zephyr-like: "Is the World well?"And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell

To June To June

To June
WRITTEN AFTER AN UNGENIAL MAY.I'll heed no more the poet's lay-- His false-fond song shall charm no more-- My heart henceforth shall but adoreThe real, not the misnamed May.Too long I've knelt, and vainly hung My offerings round an empty name; O May! thou canst not be the sameAs once thou wert when Earth was young.Thou canst not be the same to-day-- The poet's dream--the lover's joy:-- The floral heaven of girl and boyWere heaven no more, if thou wert May.If thou wert May, then May is cold, And, oh! how changed from what