JANUARY 



31 



Winter, too, is, on the whole, the triumphant 

 season of the moon, a moon devoid of sentiment, 

 if you choose, but with the refreshment of a purer 

 intellectual light, the cooler orb of middle life. 

 Who ever saw anything to match that gleam, 

 rather divined than seen, which runs before her 

 over the snow, a breath of light, as she rises on 

 the infinite silence of winter night ? High in the 

 heavens, also, she seems to bring out some intenser 

 property of cold with her chilly polish. ... As you 

 walk homeward, for it is time that we should 

 end our ramble, you may perchance hear the 

 most impressive sound in nature, unless it be the 

 fall of a tree in the forest during the hush of sum- 

 mer noon. It is the stifled shriek of the lake yon- 

 der as the frost throttles it. 



LOWELL: A Good Word for Winter. 



