By God’s clear glory,—down our earth, to rake
The dismal snows instead; flake following flake,
To cover all the corn. We walk upon
The shadow of hills, across a level thrown,
And pant like climbers. Near the alder-brake
We sigh so loud, the Nightingale within
Refuses to sing loud, as else she would.
O, brothers! let us leave the shame and sin
Of taking vainly, in a plaintive mood,
The holy name of Grief!—holy herein,