The Third Thursday Readers

Afternoon in February by Longfellow

The day is ending, The night is descending;

The marsh is frozen,

The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes

The red sun flashes

On village windows

That glimmer red.

The snow recommences;

The buried fences

Mark no longer

The road o'er the plain;

While through the meadows,

Like fearful shadows,

Slowly passes

A funeral train.

The bell is pealing,

And every feeling

Within me responds

To the dismal knell;

Shadows are trailing,

My heart is bewailing

And tolling within

Like a funeral bell.