=The Stove and the Grate-Setter=

Old Winter is coming, to play off his tricks—­
  To make your ears tingle—­your fingers to numb! 
So I, with my trowel, new mortar and bricks,
  To guard you against him, already am come.

An ounce of prevention in time, I have found,
  Is worth pounds of remedy taken too late! 
And proof that the sense of my maxim is sound,
  Will shine where I fasten stove, furnace or grate.

The Summer leaves now whirling fast from the trees,
  By Autumn’s chill blast are tossed yellow and sere;
And soon, with the breath of his nostrils to freeze
  Each thing he can puff at, will Winter be here!

But hardly he’ll dare to steal in at the door,
  Your elbows to bite with his keen cutting air,
And give you an ague, where I’ve been before,
  To set the defence I to-day can prepare.

And when he comes blustering on from the north,
  To give you blue faces, and shakes by the chin,
You’ll find what the craft of the mason was worth,
  As you from abroad to your parlor step in!

For all will around be so pleasant and warm,—­
  Your hearth bright and cheering—­your coal in a glow;
You’ll not heed the winds whistling up the rough storm
  To sift o’er your dwellings its clouds full of snow!

You’ll then think of me;—­how I handled to-day
  The cold stone and iron—­the brick and the lime: 
And all, but the surer foundation to lay
  For comfort to give in the drear winter time.

I lay you, against this old Winter, a charm. 
  To make him, at least, keep himself out of doors! 
’Twould melt—­should he enter—­his hard hand and arm. 
  When loud for admission he threatens and roars.

If gratitude then should come, warming your heart,
  As peaceful you sit by your warm fireside;
Perhaps it may teach you some good to impart
  To those, where the gifts you enjoy are denied.

For He in whose favor all blessedness is;
  And out of whose kingdom no treasure is sure,
Was poor when on earth;—­and the poor still are his: 
  His charge to his friends is “Remember the poor.”

Nor would his disciple be higher than He,
  Who once on the dwellings of men, for his bread,
In lowliness wrought! but contentedly, we
  Will work by the light that our Master has shed.

=Song of the Bees=

We watch for the light of the morn to break,
  And color the eastern sky
With its blended hues of saffron and lake;
Then say to each other, “Awake! awake! 
For our winter’s honey is all to make,
  And our bread for a long supply!”

Then off we hie to the hill and the dell—­
  To the field, the meadow, and bower: 
In the columbine’s horn we love to dwell,—­
To dip in the lily with snow-white bell,—­
To search the balm in its odorous cell,
  The mint, and rosemary flower.