January

The snow lies heavy on the hills,The lowland wastes are white,The sharp wind whistles shrill and coldIn the great elms, to-night;And through the dim old hemlock woodsIt heaves a quivering sigh,And all the glittering host of starsListen and hear the cry;While like a globe of frozen iceThe moon hangs in the sky.

The hazel's dainty twigs are white,Touched by the silvery frost;The hawthorn and the cedar hedgeIn fleecy drifts are lost;And down upon the broad blue lakeThe waters take their restBeneath the crystal coffin-lidOf ice upon their breast:A conquered warrior, pinioned down,The mill-wheel stands confessed.

Out on the river's glittering plainThe skater's steel rings clear:Winter's for him the carnivalOf all the beauteous year;O'er the hard-trodden frozen trackThe gay sleighs speed along,The iron hoof-beats keeping timeTo many a wild old song,And underneath the soft fur robesYoung hearts beat high and strong.

Midwinter! though we own thy reignA tyrant's, yet, for all,There are some. compensations stillWithin thy frozen thrall!With hope, and youth, and love for ours,It's little grief to knowThat all outside our fire-lit homeIs buried in the snow;For when we live with those we love,We bask in summer's glow.