OW silently, all wrapped in robe of snow, Earth seems to sleep beneath yon cloudless sky, Blue, bright, and beautiful, as if the glow Of Summer basked beneath that smiling sun, And not the form of Winter's sternest hour. For see! or far or near the eye can meet No touch of Nature's softer hues,—no spot Of spring-time verdure near,—but all around In 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 tree With glittering wreaths of many an airy form, And pendent crystals, bright, fantastic, pure As 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 find Fresh beauty still, and charms for ever new.
Yes; though all looks so drear, yet still to me There is a something in this wintry scene, A touching stillness in the echoing calm, That wraps the earth in silence. Frost has flung Her voiceless chain upon the murmuring breeze, And hushed awhile the laughing streamlet's voice In icy stillness: 'neath that vault of blue, Which spreads unclouded o'er the slumbering world, No sound is heard,—no murmur breaks the spell Of noonday silence, save where one low note The 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 feels The charm of such an hour—the witching spell This 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 depths Where Memory sleeps, and rouse to life once more Scenes long departed—hours that passed away, And cannot come again. And cannot come again.My earthly lot I 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 thoughts Of early days, my heart still yearns for home, And all the well-known tones, familiar forms, The thousand nameless ties that twine around My native land and home. My native land and home.Thou wilt not chide, Belovèd! feelings like to these, nor deem The heart less all thine own, that sometimes thus Returns, with fond remembrance, to the thought Of all those distant loved ones, scattered wide, In life or death than thee alone less dear.
OW silently, all wrapped in robe of snow,
OW silently, all wrapped in robe of snow,