White are the far-off fields, and white The fading forests grow; The wind dies out along the heights, 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 around; In wood and water, earth and air Silence is everywhere
Save when at lonely spells Some farmer's sleigh, urged on, With rustling runners and sharp bells Swings by me and is gone; From the empty space I hear A sound remote and clear The barking of a dog, To cattle, is 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 round the sky The world seems so shrouded, so far away. Its noises sleep, and I as secret as Yon buried stream plod dumbly on and dream.