Poems (Chitwood)/The Snow
For works with similar titles, see The Snow.
THE SNOW.
How lightly it creeps
Over valley and hill,
From the rocks' wildest steeps
To the bright sparkling rill!
It covers each place
With a mantle of white;
Yet no sound can we trace
Of a footstep so light.
Over valley and hill,
From the rocks' wildest steeps
To the bright sparkling rill!
It covers each place
With a mantle of white;
Yet no sound can we trace
Of a footstep so light.
Field, desert, and wood,
Doth it cover them all;
On the evil and good
Doth its soft vesture fall.
It kisses the stream,
Which in summer so gay
Onward smoothly did gleam
To its home far away.
Doth it cover them all;
On the evil and good
Doth its soft vesture fall.
It kisses the stream,
Which in summer so gay
Onward smoothly did gleam
To its home far away.
Oh! softly it lies
On the willow bough spread—
Where the wind sadly sighs
O'er the tomb of the dead.
How fair is thy form!
Yet how brief is thy stay!
Thou did'st come in the storm,
And will soon pass away.
On the willow bough spread—
Where the wind sadly sighs
O'er the tomb of the dead.
How fair is thy form!
Yet how brief is thy stay!
Thou did'st come in the storm,
And will soon pass away.