A solemn silence reigns o'er all,
A death-like stillness, cold and deep,
As underneath her snowy pall
The old earth lies asleep.
No birds are in the wailing trees,
Whose limbs, all shrunken now and bare,
Sway wildly in the winter breeze
Like withered arms in prayer.
Vainly o'er all these fields, of white
The sun looks down; his feeble beams,
In spots of cold and dazzling light,
Glint from the frozen streams.
The sudden gusts from off the ground
Whirl up light showers of blinding snow,
That, meeting in their frolic round,
Slide to the vale below.
O fettned streams and leafless trees!
O sleeping flowers! The warm southwest
Will soon send forth his gentle breeze,
And break your icy rest.
O flowers of joy, that once did make
A summer in my breast, what art
Can bid ye bloom again, or break
This winter of the heart?