The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills
O’er the dim waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.
All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued;
The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low;
As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many a muffled blow.
The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,