O drifted whiteness covering

The fair face of nature.

Pure as the sigh of a blessed spirit

On the eternal shores, you

Glitter in the summer sun

Considerable. My mortal

Ken seems weak and

Helpless in the midst of

Your dazzling splendor,

And I would hide my

Diminished head like

Serf unclothed in presence

Of his mighty King.

You lie engulphed

Within the cold embrace

Of rocky walls and giant

Cliffs. You spread out

Your white mantle and

Enwrap the whole broad

Universe, and a portion

Of York State.

You seem content

Resting in silent whiteness

On the frozen breast of

The cold, dead earth. You

Think apparently that

You are middling white;

But once I was in the

Same condition. I was

Pure as the beautiful snow,

But I fell. It was a

Right smart fall, too.

It churned me up a

Good deal and nearly

Knocked the supreme

Duplex from its intellectual

Throne. It occurred in

Washington, D. C.

But thou

Snow, lying so spotless

On the frozen earth, as

I remarked before, thou

Hast indeed a soft,

Soft thing. Thou comest

Down like the silent

Movements of a specter,

And thy fall upon the

Earth is like the tread

Of those who walk the

Shores of immortality.

You lie around all

Winter drawing your

Annuities till spring,

And then the soft

Breath from the south with

Touch seductive bids you

Go, and you light out

With more or less alacrity.

A BUSHEL OF SMALLER CHESTNUTS.