And at home on the wild frozen wastes of the North;
While I whisper sweet things to the flowers in their bloom,
And breathe a sad strain round the aisle and the tomb.
When Winter all sternly comes forth from his cave,
To still the glad streamlet and fetter the wave,
I howl, as the tempest sweeps by in its wrath,
Or scatter the snow from the icy king’s path,
And chant, in the midnight all lonely and still,
A dirge for the fallen, by valley and hill.
And Spring, lovely maiden! Oh what would she be