OW silently, all wrapped in robe of snow,Earth seems to sleep beneath yon cloudless sky,Blue, bright, and beautiful, as if the glowOf Summer basked beneath that smiling sun,And not the form of Winter's sternest hour.For see! or far or near the eye can meetNo touch of Nature's softer hues,—no spotOf spring-time verdure near,—but all aroundIn dazzling whiteness spreads the untrodden snow,"One boundless waste, cold, calm, and motionless,But still most beautiful. There diamond sparks,Like those that glitter on the moonlight wave,Besprinkle o'er the plains of stainless snow,That seem, as there they shine in changeful hues,The magic pavement of some fairy hall,Frost, too, her wizard ministry hath lent,And hung each lowly shrub or towering treeWith glittering wreaths of many an airy form,And pendent crystals, bright, fantastic, pureAs those that gleam beneath dark ocean's caves,'Tis Winter's loveliest, though his sternest hour:The very keenness of the piercing airFeels light and cheerful; o'er the crispy snow,Which scarce beneath the passing footstep yields,I love to tread,—and even here can findFresh beauty still, and charms for ever new.
Yes; though all looks so drear, yet still to meThere is a something in this wintry scene,A touching stillness in the echoing calm,That wraps the earth in silence. Frost has flungHer voiceless chain upon the murmuring breeze,And hushed awhile the laughing streamlet's voiceIn icy stillness: 'neath that vault of blue,Which spreads unclouded o'er the slumbering world,No sound is heard,—no murmur breaks the spellOf noonday silence, save where one low noteThe robin breathes in mournful melody,Or icicle, that feels the sunbeam's power,Drops tinkling 'mid the withered leaves below.All heaven and earth are still! Oh, who but feelsThe charm of such an hour—the witching spellThis hush of Nature casts o'er every heart,Waking again the dreams of other days,The voice of years long past! At least, to me,Such silence seems to touch the inmost depthsWhere Memory sleeps, and rouse to life once moreScenes long departed—hours that passed away,And cannot come again.And cannot come again.My earthly lotI would not change for all this world can give.Yet marvel not, if at an hour like this,An hour so rife with all that stirs the thoughtsOf early days, my heart still yearns for home,And all the well-known tones, familiar forms,The thousand nameless ties that twine aroundMy native land and home.My native land and home.Thou wilt not chide,Belovèd! feelings like to these, nor deemThe heart less all thine own, that sometimes thusReturns, with fond remembrance, to the thoughtOf all those distant loved ones, scattered wide,In life or death than thee alone less dear.
OW silently, all wrapped in robe of snow,Earth seems to sleep beneath yon cloudless sky,Blue, bright, and beautiful, as if the glowOf Summer basked beneath that smiling sun,And not the form of Winter's sternest hour.For see! or far or near the eye can meetNo touch of Nature's softer hues,—no spotOf spring-time verdure near,—but all aroundIn dazzling whiteness spreads the untrodden snow,"One boundless waste, cold, calm, and motionless,But still most beautiful. There diamond sparks,Like those that glitter on the moonlight wave,Besprinkle o'er the plains of stainless snow,That seem, as there they shine in changeful hues,The magic pavement of some fairy hall,Frost, too, her wizard ministry hath lent,And hung each lowly shrub or towering treeWith glittering wreaths of many an airy form,And pendent crystals, bright, fantastic, pureAs those that gleam beneath dark ocean's caves,'Tis Winter's loveliest, though his sternest hour:The very keenness of the piercing air Feels light and cheerful; o'er the crispy snow,Which scarce beneath the passing footstep yields,I love to tread,—and even here can findFresh beauty still, and charms for ever new.