pers" and "A Fable for Critics," he was writing and
publishing over his own name sweet, simple lines that came straight
from his heart and which will no doubt be remembered when the uncouth
Yankee dialect of Hosea Biglow and the hard rhymes of the "Fable" are
forgotten. The simpler a true poet is the more beautiful and really
poetic he is likely to be. The simplest thing Lowell ever wrote was
"The First Snow-Fall," composed in 1847 after the death of his little
daughter Blanche, with the sorrow for whose loss was mingled the joy
at the coming of another child.

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.

The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar that renewed our woe.

And again to the child I whispered,
"The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall!"

Then with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.

Lowell's greatest poem, "The Vision of Sir Launfal," was written in
the same simple, beautiful spirit of "The First Snow-Fall," and that
is why we all like to read it over and over again. "Sir Launfal" was a
favorite with Mrs. Lowell from the beginning. She probably knew better
that it was a great poem than the poet himself did.

The "Prelude" to the first part is beautiful because it contains so
much that cannot but touch the heart of every one, however he may
dislike poetry. A great poem like this cannot be read hastily, nor
must we stop with reading it once. Great poetry must be read so many
times that it is committed entirely to memory before we