THROUGH the crimson fires of morning

Streaming upward in the East,

Leaps the sun, with sudden dawning,

Like a captive king released;

And December skies reflected

In the azure hue below

Seem like summer recollected

In the dreaming of the snow.—

It is winter, little children, let the summer,

singing, go!

There are crisp winds gaily blowing

From the North and from the West;

'Bove the river strongly flowing

Lies the river's frozen breast:

O'er its shining silence crashing

Skim the skaters to and fro;

And the noonday splendors flashing

In the rainbow colors show.—

It is winter, little children, let the summer,

singing, go!

When the gorgeous day is dying,

There is swept a cloud of rose

O'er the hill-tops softly lying

In the flush of sweet repose;

And the nests, all white with snowing,

In the twilight breezes blow;

And the untired moon is showing

Her bare heart to the snow.—

It is winter, little children, let the summer,

singing, go!