Grandpere

Old Grandpere gat in the corner, With his grandchild on his knee, Looking up at his wrinkled visage, For his winters were ninety-three. Fair Eleanor's locks were flaxen, The old man's once were gray, But now, they were white as the snow-drift That lay on the bleak highway. Her summers rolled on as golden As waves over sunny seas; But Grandpere could perceive no summers, The winters alone were his. He folded his arms around her, Like Winter embracing Spring; And the angels looked down from heaven, And smiled on their slumbering. But soon the angelic faces Were filled with seraphic light, As they gazed on a beauteous spirit Passing up through the frosty night: Till it stood serene before them, A youth most divinely fair; And they saw that the new-born angel Was the spirit of old Grandpere.