And paint the winter’s brown to spangled white?
Where, too, have flown the happy songs,
Long died away with sighing
On the shore-wave’s crest?
Will they take Echo as their Guide,
And bound from hill to hill at this,
The sleepy time of earth,
And waken forest song ’mid naked waste?
Ah, slumber, slumber, slumber on.
’Tis with a loving hand He scattereth the snow,