Chapter XIX

Come to our threshold now, oh snow,
Strew thy pallid ash,
Oh peaceful and slow falling snow;
The linden in the garden hangs its branches low
And to the sky no flights of wood-larks go.

Oh snow,
Who warmest and dost shield
The corn that is hardly sprung
With the moss, with the down
Strewn on the spreading field!
Silent snow, oh friendly one
To houses sleeping in the morning calm,
Cover our roof and brush our window-frames;
Oh luminous snow, into our very soul
To find a way do thou not scorn,
Snow that warmest still our last of dreams
Like the springing corn.