html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }A white mist curtains the mountain,
The river-breast's heavy with slush;
And the brown of the drear hills has vanished
'Neath the strokes of a magical brush.
The slender rose-tree by my window,
But yesterday shiv'ring and bare,
Has donned in the silence of night time
A garment most wondrously fair.
And deft, fairy fingers have woven
Of frost-work a delicate chain,
For the evergreen silently guarding
The gate at the foot of the lane.
No perfume floats up from the garden,
No bird-song drifts down from the trees;
No shout of the sun-tanned reaper
Is borne on the morning breeze.
But the laughter of rosy-cheeked children
Rings out with a musical trill,
As they haste with their gay-painted sledges
To join in the sport at the hill.
And the jingle of merry bells falleth
Unceasingly on the ear,
And their music, like old songs, recalleth
The mem'ries of many a year.
January, 1871.