January 1, 1829

Winter is come again. The sweet south west Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth Has laid aside its mantle to be bound By the frost fetter. There is not a sound Save of the skaiter's heel, and there is laid An icy finger on the lip of streams, And the clear icicle hangs cold and still, And the snow-fall is noiseless as a though. Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends Many sweet voices with its odors out, And autumn rustleth its decaying robe With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb! God made his ministry a silent one, And he has given him a foot of steel And an unlovely aspect, and a breath Sharp to the senses—and we know that He Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid Under the shadow of his hand. Look up! And it shall be interpreted—Your home Hath a temptation now. There is no voice Of waters with beguiling for your ear, And the cool forest and the meadows green Witch not your feet away; and in the dells There are no violets, and upon the hills There are no sunny places to lie down. You must go in, and by your cheerful fire Wait for the offices of love, and hear Accents of human tenderness, and feast Your eye upon the beauty of the young. It is a season for the quiet thought, And the still reckoning with thyself. The year Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time Whispers the history of its vanished hours; And the heart, calling its affections up, Counteth its wasted ingots. Life stands still And settles like a fountain, and the eye Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all That stirred its troubled waters. It is well That Winter with the dying year should come!