White are the far-off plains, and white

The fading forests grow;

The wind dies out along the height

And denser still the snow,

A gathering weight on roof and tree

Falls down scarce audibly.



The road before me smooths and fills

Apace, and all about

The fences dwindle, and the hills

Are blotted slowly out;

The naked trees loom spectrally

Into the dim white sky.



The meadows and far-sheeted streams

Lie still without a sound;

Like some soft minister of dreams

The snow-fall hoods me round;

In wood and water, earth and air,

A silence everywhere.



Save when Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,

With rustling runner and sharp bells,

Swings by me and is gone;

Or from the empty waste I hear

A sound remote and clear;



The barking of a dog, or call

To cattle, sharply pealed,

Borne, echoing from some wayside stall

Or barnyard far afield;



Then all is silent and the snow falls

Settling soft and slow

The evening deepens and the grey

Folds closer earth and sky

The world seems shrouded, far away.



Its noises sleep, and I as secret as

Yon buried stream plod dumbly on and dream