20 February. 
AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 
The day is ending, 
The night is descending, 
The marsh is frozen, 
The river is dead. 
Through clouds, like ashes, 
The red sun flashes 
On village windows, 
That glimmer red. 
The snow re-commences ; 
The buried fences 
Mark no longer 
The road o’er the plain ; \ 
While through the meadows, 
Like fearful shadows, 
Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 
The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 
To the dismal knell. 
Shadows are trailing, 
My heart is bewailing, 
And tolling within 
Like a funeral bell. 
Longfellow. 
