White are the far-off fields, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the heights,
And denser still the snow
gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly

The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me around;
In wood and water, earth and air
Silence is everywhere

Save when at lonely spells
Some farmer's sleigh, urged on, [bad word] runners and sharp bells
Swings by me and is gone;
From the empty space I hear
sound remote and clear
The barking of a dog,
To cattle, is sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far afield;
Then all is silent and the snow falls
Settling soft and slow

The evening deepens and the grey
Folds closer round the sky
The world seems so shrouded,
so far away.
Its noises sleep, and I as secret as
Yon buried stream plod dumbly on
and dream.

I dream....