In her cloud-robe somber broods o’er the earth,
When the birds are hushed ’mid woodland and hill,
And the flowers are asleep till the spring’s glad birth,
There are blossoms still for the trustful heart,
Sweet hopes for what life may yet unfold,
And memories precious that will not depart
When fades from the hill-tops the autumn’s gold.
WINTER.
I bring to the waiting fields the snow,
December’s mantle so soft and pure,