A Winter Ditty.
No green may show thro’ drifted
snow,1
No frozen flower may peep ;2
The buds that blossomed long ago3
Have folded up, and gone below4
To sleep.5
The seed men sow, and never know6
Whose hand may chance to reap ;7
In frosty fallows lying low,8
Fall softly, golden grain ! and so9
To sleep.10
Chill airs that blow so keenly now11
Across the roaring deep—12
Poor streamlet, frozen as you flow,13
Farewell a while ! We meadows go14
To sleep.15