The stately hemlocks keep their mantled green, 

 And front the blast with all their ancient pride ; 

 And even the pencilled alders still abide, 



Their catkins tightly closed droop blackly o er the 

 stream. 



O wild-wood flowers, we knew and loved you well, 

 Yet cannot mourn for that which is not lost, 

 No piercing blast, no hard relentless frost, 



Can reach the inner world where you were wont 

 to dwell ! 



The reigning year no absolute power can bring, 

 Beyond its rule our true allegiance lies ; 

 We brave the night with glad, prophetic eyes, 



And lo ! returns afar our hope s immortal Spring ! 



The skies hang dark, the wind is sighing low, 

 We calmly smile, our hearts are strong to wait ; 

 We leave our garland safe from cruel Fate, 



Laid close and warm beneath the softly falling 

 snow. 



