The stars are falling, are falling,

By stream-side and meadow and wood;

They silence the whispering leaves;

And swiftly and softly they brood

The robin’s lone nest in the eaves.

The stars are falling, are falling,

Yet Night has lost never a one,

Of all that are gathered below;

To-morrow they’ll melt in the sun—

For these are the stars of the snow.

The stars are falling, are falling—

Look! On your sleeve is a star!

Six-pointed and perfect its form,

Six-pointed its comrades are,—

All, gems of this wonder-storm!