After the singing birds are gone

And the leaves are parched and low,

When the year is old, and the sky is wan,

Then comes the snow.

Hushed are the world's discordant notes

By the soft hand of snow.

Each flake how silently it floats;

How peaceable, how slow!

Ah, when the silver cord is loosed

And the golden bowl is broken,

And the spirit poured on the air unused,

As one has spoken,

After the last faint sob of breath

And the jar of life's outflow,

Over the sunken soul comes death,

Soft, cool, like snow.