The Northern Clime

In the words of Henry W. Longfellow, one of my favorite poets:

There is no long and lingering spring,
unfolding leaf and blossom one by one;
no long and lingering autumn,
pompous with many-colored leaves
and the glow of Indian Summer.
But winter and summer are wonderful,
and pass into each other.

The quail has hardly ceased piping in the corn,
when winter from the folds of trailing clouds
sows broadcast over the land, snow,
icicles, and rattling hail.
The days wane apace.
The sun hardly rises above the horizon,
or does not rise at all.
The moon and the stars shine through the day;
only at noon, they are pale and wan,
and in the southern sky a red, fiery glow,
as of sunset, burns along the horizon,
and then goes out.

And now the Northern Lights begin to burn,
faintly at first, like sunbeams
playing in the waters of the blue sea.
Then a soft crimson glow tinges the heavens.
There is a blush on the cheek of night.
The colors come and go,
and change from crimson to gold,
from gold to crimson.
The snow is stained with rosy light.
Twofold from the zenith, east, and west,
Flames a fiery sword;
And a broad band passes athwart the heavens,
Like a summer sunset.
Soft purple clouds comes sailing over the sky,
And through their vapory folds,
The winking stars shine white as silver.

And now the glad, leafy mid-summer,
Full of blossom and the song of nightingales,
Is come!
O how beautiful is the summer night,
Which is not night, but a sunless
Yet unclouded day,
descending upon earth with dews,
and shadows, and refreshing coolness!
How beautiful the long, mild twilight,
Which like a silver clasp unites today with yesterday!
How beautiful the silent hour,
When morning and evening sit together,
hand in hand beneath the starless sky of midnight.