White are the far-off plains, and
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.
The road before me smooths and
Apace, and all
The fences dwindle, and the
Are blotted slowly out;
The naked trees loom
Into the dim white sky.
The meadows and far-sheeted
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.
Save when at lonely
Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runners and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hearA sound remote and clear;
The barking of a dog, or
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside
Or barnyard far a-field;
Then all is silent, and the
Falls, settling soft and slow.
The evening deepens, and the
Folds closer earth and sky;
The world seems shrouded far away;
Its noises sleep, and I,
As secret as yon buried stream,
Plod dumbly on, and dream.
