Xix

Come to our threshold now, oh snow, Strew thy pallid ash, Oh peaceful and slow falling snow; The linden in the garden hangs its branches low And to the sky no flights of wood-larks go.

Oh snow, Who warmest and dost shield The corn that is hardly sprung With the moss, with the down Strewn on the spreading field! Silent snow, oh friendly one To houses sleeping in the morning calm, Cover our roof and brush our window-frames; Oh luminous snow, into our very soul To find a way do thou not scorn, Snow that warmest still our last of dreams Like the springing corn.