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White are the far-off plains, and white The fading forests grow; The wind dies out along the height, And denser still the snow A gathering weight on roof and tree, Falls down scarce audibly The meadows and far-sheeted streams Lie still without a sound; Like some soft minister of dreams The snow-fall hoods me round; In wood and water, earth and air A silence everywhere Save when at lonely intervals Some farmer's sleigh, urged on, With rustling runners and sharp bells Swings by me and is gone; Or from the empty waste I hear A sound remote and clear The barking of a dog, or call To cattle, sharply pealed, Borne echoing from some wayside stall Or barnyard far afield; Then all is silent and the snow falls Settling soft and slow The evening deepens and the grey Folds closer earth and sky The world seems shrouded, far away. Its noises sleep, and I as secret as Yon buried stream plod dumbly on and dream. |
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