From the Evening Star, June 21, 1914. By Philander Johnson.
How softly fall the memory lights
On pictures of the past
As still and sultry grow the nights
That shade the glare at last.
When like a furnace breath so hot
The breezes ebb and flow,
You think about the cherished spot
Where once you shoveled snow.
The eager tingle of the blast
No more seems harsh and rude.
That sky with clouds all overcast
Seems gentle and subdued.
Oh, how we wailed the bitter lot
That faced us months ago,
And now how lovely seems the spot
Where once we shoveled snow.