  I’m tired to-night of the winter time, Its dreariness, moan, and woe, The lonesome wind, the sleet and snow, That continually come and go. And the chill white robe that enfoldeth The earth in a cold embrace— Just as we shrouded the form we loved, And covered the pale dead face. The blast rolls down from an icy zone, Where the lonely Arctic sea Hath stormed and raged through infinite years In terrible, desolate glee. The trees are rocked and the hills are swept, And the vales are pent with snow, By the furious sweep of the icy winds, That ceaselessly come and go. The trees are bare and the hills are dead, And the vales are shorn of their bloom; Where all was joy ere the summer died Is now but a mocking tomb. And the sky is dark as doom, And the merciless swirl of the driving snow Makes deeper the dismal gloom. Relentless winter! thy iron clasp And withering icy breath Earth’s fragrant loveliness have slain— Thou art but a type of death. And phantom hands seem beckoning me, And voices as from the dead— Dear spirit voices of long ago— As I bow my stricken head. My heart is full and the tears will fall, And my thoughts are heavy with pain; I’m weary of loss and loneliness, And this wild, dark winter plain. I long, so long, for the summer time, With its birds and fairest flowers, The sun-crowned hills, the song of the sea, The meads and the greenwood bowers. The murmuring rills and soft twilight, The sigh of the wandering breeze, Caressing the sea, and dying away To a whisper among the trees. But as I dream and the snow falls fast, Comes this thought with glad surprise: There’ll be no grievous loss nor death, No winter in paradise. |
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