White are the far-off plains, and white
   The fading forests grow;
   The wind dies out along the height
   And denser still the snow,
   A 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 round;
   In wood and water, earth and air,
   A silence is everywhere.
  
   Save when at lonely spells
   Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,
   With rustling runners and sharp bells,
   Swings by me and is gone;
   Or from the empty waste I hear
   A sound remote and clear.
  
   The barking of a dog, to call
   To cattle, sharply pealed,
   Borne, echoing from some wayside stall
   Or barnyard far afield.
   hen all is silent and the snow falls
   Settling soft and slow.
  
   The evening deepens and the grey
   Folds closer earth and sky
   The world seems shrouded, so far away.
   Its noises sleep, and I as secret as
   Yon buried stream plod dumbly on and dream.
  
   And dream, and dream:
   And dream, and dream:
   And dream, and dream: