Poems (Schiller)/The morning after the snow storm
THE MORNING AFTER THE SNOW STORM
A white mist curtains the mountain, The river-breast's heavy with slush;And the brown of the drear hills has vanished 'Neath the strokes of a magical brush.
The slender rose-tree by my window, But yesterday shiv'ring and bare,Has donned in the silence of night time A garment most wondrously fair.
And deft, fairy fingers have woven Of frost-work a delicate chain,For the evergreen silently guarding The gate at the foot of the lane.
No perfume floats up from the garden, No bird-song drifts down from the trees;No shout of the sun-tanned reaper Is borne on the morning breeze.
But the laughter of rosy-cheeked children Rings out with a musical trill,As they haste with their gay-painted sledges To join in the sport at the hill.
And the jingle of merry bells falleth Unceasingly on the ear,And their music, like old songs, recalleth The mem'ries of many a year.January, 1871.