No breath of wind,
No gleam of sun – Still the white
Whirls softly
Twig and
And blade and
All in an
Quiet, forlorn.
Whispering, rustling,
Through the
On still and stone,
Roof, - everywhere,
It heaps its
Crystal flakes,
Of every treeA mountain makes;‘Til pale and
At shut of
Stoops from the
One wint’ry ray,
And, feathered in
Where ghosts the moon,
A robin
His lonely tune.
