Is torn from the landscape, for mantles of gray.
Oh winter! stern tyrant—if such be thy reign,
O’er the mountain and meadow—o’er hillock and plain—
If all that is lovely—’tis thine to o’erthrow—
Let us keep from our hearts, thy frost and thy snow.
Smiles.
Weep not at what the world can do,
Nor sorrow for its wrong,
But wear a smile upon thy brow—