XLV 



WINTER VOICES 



OUT of her sleep nature yet gives forth 

 voices betokening that life abides be- 

 neath the semblance of death, that her 

 warm heart still beats under the white 

 shroud that infolds her rigid breast. 



A smothered tinkle as of muffled bells 

 comes up from the streams through their 

 double roofing of snow and ice, and the 

 frozen pulse of the trees complains of its 

 thralldom with a resonant twang as of a 

 strained cord snapped asunder. 



Beneath their frozen plains, the lakes 

 bewail their imprisonment with hollow 

 moans awakening a wild and mournful 

 chorus of echoes from sleeping shores 

 that answer now no caress of ripples nor 

 angry stroke of waves nor dip and splash 

 of oar and paddle. 



The breeze stirs leafless trees and 

 shaggy evergreens to a murmur that is 

 sweet, if sadder than they gave it in the 

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