  The frozen ground looks gray. 'Twill shut the snow Out from its bosom, and the flakes will fall Softly and lie upon it. The hushed flow Of the ice-covered waters, and the call Of the cold driver to his oxen slow, And the complaining of the gust, are all That I can hear of music—would that I With the green summer like a leaf might die? So will a man grow gray, and on his head The snow of years lie visibly, and so Will come a frost when his green years have fled, And his chilled pulses sluggishly will flow, And his deep voice be shaken—would that I In the green summer of my youth might die! |
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