html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Drift softly, winter snow,
Beneath the wild wind's storm
There lieth still and low
A fair, unconscious form;
A heart as warm as mine,
Less than a year ago,
Of love and hope the shrine—
Drift softly, winter snow.
Drift softly, winter snow,
Above my precious dead,
Although he cannot know
That summer's warmth has fled;
He careth now no more
That seasons come and go
As in the years before,
Yet, softly drift, fair snow.
Drift softly, winter snow—
The light of the fair morn
Beams with a softer glow
When falling on his tomb.
The stars that virgil keep,
More sweet and tender grow
Above where he doth sleep—
Drift softly, winter snow.
Drift softly, winter snow,
Above your covering,
Where my beloved rests low
I'll make my offering:
Pale flowers that no art
Can save from winter's blast,
Yet they will show my heart
Still wanders with the past.
Drift softly, winter snow,
Beneath the wild wind's storm
There lieth still and low
A fair unconscious form;
A heart as warm as mine
Less than a year ago.
Of love and hope the shrine—
Drift softly, winter snow.
December, 1869.