Stanzas Written At Walden

When Winter fringes every bough With his fantastic wreath, And puts the seal of silence now Upon the leaves beneath;

When every stream in its pent-house Goes gurgling on its way, And in his gallery the mouse Nibbleth the meadow hay;

Methinks the summer still is nigh, And lurketh underneath, As that same meadow-mouse doth lie Snug in that last year’s heath.

And if perchance the chicadee Lisp a faint note anon, The snow is summer’s canopy, Which she herself put on.

Fair blossoms deck the cheerful trees, And dazzling fruits depend; The north wind sighs a summer breeze, The nipping frosts to fend,

Bringing glad tidings unto me, The while I stand all ear, Of a serene eternity, Which need not winter fear.

Out on the silent pond straightway The restless ice doth crack, And pond-sprites merry gambols play Amid the deafening rack.

Eager I hasten to the vale, As if I heard brave news, How Nature held high festival, Which it were hard to lose.

I gambol with my neighbor ice, And sympathising quake, As each new crack darts in a trice Across the gladsome lake.

One with the cricket in the ground, And fagot on the hearth, Resounds the rare domestic sound Along the forest path.