Turn in their narrow beds with dreams of weeping

In some remembered woe;

Across the unfenced wide marsh levels, where the dry

Brown ferns sigh out, and last year's sedges scold

In some drear language, rustling haggardly

Their thin dead leaves and dusky hoods of gold;

[Pg 35]

Across grey beechwoods where the pallid leaves unfalling

In the blind gusts like homeless ghosts are calling

With voices cracked and old;

Across the solitary clearings, where the low

Fierce gusts howl through the blinded woods, and round

The buried shanties all day long the snow

Sifts and piles up in many a spectral mound;

Across lone villages in eery wildernesses

Whose hidden life no living shape confesses

Nor any human sound;

Across the serried masses of dim cities, blown

Full of the snow that ever shifts and swells,

While far above them all their towers of stone

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