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.
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 gayOnward 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.