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 thought.     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!